


Shakespeare’s Greatest Modern Romance

by bYeFeliciaah



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Pining, Poetry, Rachel’s dramatic monologue, References to Shakespeare, Rivalry, Temporarily Unrequited Love, you know the deal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:42:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bYeFeliciaah/pseuds/bYeFeliciaah
Summary: ‘As she looked up through her bangs she saw Santana.“You alright there, Berry? Almost had a great fall.” Rachel was quite certain Santana was alluding to the nursery rhyme of Humpty Dumpty and suggesting she was an egg, but there was this slight concern in her eyes as she levelled her, grip still on her shoulders.“I-I’m fine.” One often loses eloquence when struck by love. The poetry comes afterwards.’Rachel convinces herself that she’s in love with Santana Lopez. Romantic schemes ensue.
Relationships: Rachel Berry/Finn Hudson, Rachel Berry/Santana Lopez, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 58
Kudos: 88





	1. Act I, Scene I

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of satirical. I’m playing on Rachel’s dramatics and it was so fun to write. 
> 
> I’ve never really switched POV’s in any of my recent stories, or any that I’ve posted, but half of this will be in Rachel’s POV and the other half in Santana’s. It won’t alternate each chapter, it’ll be split into two parts.

** Act I: With Every Great Romantic Plot There’s a Remarkable Leading Actor**

** - **

Rachel realised, with a startling clarity, that she was in love with Santana Lopez.

It wasn’t like she’d had enough encounters with the Cheerio to really gauge the depth of her feelings, so perhaps that’s why they were quietened. Being brought up with two fathers meant that she’d always been open to the possibility of dating women, and had considered herself bisexual until proven wrong. 

It came as a great surprise that Santana was the one to...affirm her sexuality. It was absurd. To think a week ago she’d had a rather poor opinion of the girl. 

But it all became so clear one Wednesday morning when she was shoved to the side by some jock, probably Karofsky (it might’ve been by accident, he was rather lumbering) from an elbow, with quite some force, knocking into her shoulder. Before she could crash into the lockers, something that always jarred her a little and had her afraid it’d knock off the balance of her vocal chords and she’d lose her voice, hands were clasping her shoulders and holding her upright. 

A part of her was elated at the thought of a romantic save, perhaps it was Finn and they’d fall in love all over again. But the hands were dainty, not large and calloused, and as she looked up through her bangs she saw Santana. 

“You alright there, Berry? Almost had a great fall.” Rachel was quite certain Santana was alluding to the nursery rhyme of Humpty Dumpty and suggesting she was an egg, but there was this slight concern in her eyes as she levelled her, grip still on her shoulders. 

“I-I’m fine.” One often loses eloquence when struck by love. The poetry comes afterwards. First, the vocabulary needs to be stripped right from your tongue, as with the air in your lungs, and when you’re dwelling on this at night, then come the metaphors. 

Santana just gave her a strange look, letting her arms fall back to her sides before meandering off down the hallway, high ponytail swishing as she walked. 

_ Oh! Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service.  _

Standing still as the students of McKinley passed by her, Rachel was seeing Santana for the first time, and it was definitely love at first sight.

How the universe had such a strange way of making people fall in love. Not long ago they were bickering in the choir room, rivals; an outside perspective might say. Perhaps their tension had translated into chemistry. 

Come glee club, she’d written three sonnets just in her mind, the words etched into her heart as she stared at Santana in the front row, twirling a strand of her hair, dark as the soul of one who’s love was lost and never found, taken by a fiendish hand. Who’s heart was torn from their chest and crushed beneath betrayal and rejection. 

No, she had to change that one to something more cheerful. 

As dark as the midnight sky- no, an overused cliché. Even Rachel had limits. 

As dark as the raspy, rich vocals of a jazz singer in the heart of New York, 1920s, tucked in an up and coming jazz bar, with cool, blue accents highlighting the bar and warm lighting. Oh, how Rachel longed to stare into her eyes, to see how much of her soul they refl-

“Rachel.” 

Snapping out of her love induced haze, she realised the glee club were all watching her expectantly, and she was openly staring at Santana’s shoulder. At least that wasn’t entirely obvious. 

“What?” 

“I asked everyone’s ideas on regionals and...you didn’t say anything.” When had Mr Schue entered the room? Huh, love had her distracted.

“I’m sorry, I was finding the perfect simile.” Somebody snorted, and there were a few chuckles, but Rachel gave another glance at Santana and her striking features before allowing glee mode to overtake her. Love would never stifle her ambitions.

“I left my similes on all night once and they burned their house down.” 

“I think we should sing purely love songs for regionals.” Rachel strutted towards the middle of the choir room, a list of love songs in her back pocket, ignoring Brittany altogether. “Here’s why.”

•••

So, the dilemma was that Santana Lopez clearly didn’t care all that much for Rachel. However, she’d hardly been welcoming to the cheerleader. Perhaps it was a two way street, just...Santana was meaner. 

Of course there was the enemies to lovers trope. The rivalry instilled into them by the McKinley caste system could be something of a Romeo and Juliet story - just less tragic. There was some hope for Rachel. The girl wasn’t straight if her relationship with Brittany was any indicator, and she had some suspicions that it wasn’t merely sex, and also that she was hiding herself behind this facade of sexuality and popularity. 

She tried almost too hard to flaunt any male relationships she’d had. It wouldn’t be surprising if she was exclusively into women. So, that placed Rachel into a smaller pool of people. Even smaller in Lima, Ohio. She’d take a guess that Santana hadn’t had any experiences with girls beyond Brittany. 

Perhaps sex could be her weapon. Rachel wasn’t keen on the idea of using sexuality as power, the furthest Finn had gotten was second base, but she could make some sacrifices to, in the least, garner the girls attention. The way she’d done with Finn. 

Romance took passion. She needed to light the spark, an instigator, to get them on the right path. 

Soon enough they’d be caught up in a star-crossed lovers, sweeping romance; the cheerleader and the broadway star. One weighed down by popularity, the other ambition. The sapphic nature only made it more unique.

She didn’t know how she hadn’t seen this before. 

Firstly, she’d have to get herself closer to Santana in a friendly sense. Perhaps with accidental encounters and spontaneous conversations. A way for them to find similarities and friendship with one another, defying expectations, and eventually being swept away by romance. 

That’s exactly what she planned Friday afternoon. The opportunity had arisen when she saw Santana walking alone, down the empty McKinley hallways, presumably late to class. It’d cost her being late to calculus, but she was sure the teacher would let her off on one count of tardiness. It’d be the first of the year. (The first of her entire high school career).

Waiting behind the corner, she rushed around it when Santana’s footsteps were close enough, and knocked into her. Dropping her books strategically on the ground as Santana’s stayed clutched in her grasp, she let out a faux gasp and watched as the Latina instinctively prepared to go all “snix mode” (as the girl herself had called it) before realising it was Rachel. Her scowl remained, but she softened slightly. “Watch where you’re going, Hobbit.” 

“I’m sorry, I was rounding the corner and didn’t see you,” She pushed her hair behind her ear, crouching down to start lifting her books and sheet music. 

Santana reluctantly leant down to help, grumbling something beneath her breath. 

“Thank you,” Rachel mumbled quietly, swooning under the consideration. 

“Amy Whinehouse? Mhm,” Santana let out an appraised hum as she saw the sheet music Rachel had printed out purely for this encounter, looking up at the girl. 

Rachel had planned this too, because she’d strategically placed her blouse so that her cleavage peaked out the tiniest bit as she bent over, right in Santana’s line of sight. 

“I wanted to... _experiment_ a little. Broaden my horizons,” She supplied, stressing the fourth word of the sentence. 

“Right,” Santana cleared her throat, that must’ve been a good sign, as she rushed to pick everything up, standing quite abruptly. “Well, it’s a good choice. You performing it in glee?” 

Rachel rose too, pulling at the edge of her skirt and tilting her head at the Cheerio. “Oh, I’m not sure. I don’t know if I have the voice for her style of music.” 

“You have the voice for any style of music, Berry, I wouldn’t worry about that.” 

She couldn’t help the blush, even if it was mostly true. Hearing a compliment from the Latina was foreign, but entirely welcome.

“Well, you’d probably be much better with this song,” Leaning into Santana’s space a little, she took the book and the music she’d picked up for her, brushing a finger against her hand in a way that seemed unintentional. 

“This ones totally your style,” Santana offered, before seeming to remember herself. “I mean, you could try to do it better than me.”

“Is that a challenge?” Rachel raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile on her face. 

“Well, yeah. A huge challenge, I’m sure. I doubt you could do it,” She shrugged, running a hand through her ponytail in a self assured way, almost arrogant. Rachel found it unbelievably attractive. 

“Do I sense a diva off?”

“No way. I know how awesome I am, I don’t need a diva off to tell me that. But, still,  you could try,” Santana walked passed her then, effectively ending the encounter. “Anyway, Berry, I’ve gotta get to AP chemistry. See ya.” 

It took her a couple of minutes to compose herself before she could head over to her lesson. She barely registered the fact that Santana was in AP classes. A whole plethora of poetic words about intelligence washed over her. The teacher was surprised by how late she was (considering she’d probably never been late to his lesson). Rachel just whispered about a “girls emergency”, effectively thwarting any reprimand from him. 

•••

That’s how she found herself in front of the glee club the next week, shuffling sheet music about by the piano and waiting to perform. She’d thought about asking Santana to sing the song with her, but that would’ve been extremely forward. The cheerleader probably would’ve laughed, or even insulted her. They weren’t there. Yet. 

Still, she’d caught the girls attention, because Santana’s eyes were mostly on her as she sang ‘Love Is A Losing Game.’ Usually she’d glance up on an odd high note or at the bridge, interest piqued slightly by Rachel’s sheer vocal abilities and the natural talent she had of moving people. But the rest of the time she would glance around the room and pick at her nails with an arm crossed over her chest, slumped in her seat. 

Today, however, she was watching intently. 

It was a moving song. Rachel put emotion in all of her performances, but with this one, she latched onto her newfound romantic feelings towards Santana and expressed them without actually expressing them. It wasn’t like she was setting up a stool right in front of her and singing. But she’d occasionally meet her eyes.

The club would probably assume she was singing about her lost love with Finn. But this performance was for Santana. She must’ve recognised that to some extent, considering they’d talked about it. But Rachel doubted she knew the true intent behind it. 

It must’ve been even more exceptional than her other performances, because the glee club reacted with enthusiasm once she’d finished, clapping and cheering loudly. She even saw Kurt wipe at his lashline a couple of times. 

“Well, guys. I think we’ve got a contender for a solo at Regionals.” 

Santana was smiling, clapping along with the others, but as she passed her, she muttered a quiet, “You definitely won.” It was like a secret between them. It sent a thrill up her spine. 

“But...you didn’t sing too?”

“You would’ve won anyway.” Rachel thought it was quite a big thing, Santana admitting that somebody was better than her. 

“Thanks, Santana.” 

•••

Rachel considered slipping a poem into Santana’s locker, but she must’ve had hundreds of admirers. She probably wouldn’t be the first. Instead, she stared at her across the hall from her own locker, rocking back and forth on her toes and hoping to catch the girls eyes.  To no avail. They were occupied by her locker, and Brittany beside her. 

Being in love, although rather painful in a way that took a toll on her heart, was enriching. The passion she felt had translated into her voice and dance, into the poems she’d managed to scribble down between classes and in the evening when there was nobody to peak over her shoulder. 

She was creatively inspired, and Santana Lopez was an excellent muse. 

From a physical, potentially shallow, standpoint; she was gorgeous. The personification of beauty and passion. Fire. Despite her sharp mouth, her voice was nothing like Rachel had ever heard, a raspiness and timber to it that was overwhelmingly seductive and beguiling. Rachel felt a newfound sexuality within her that she hadn’t quite felt with Finn. Yes, sometimes he made her feel a little hot, if she really focused her efforts on locating her arousal when they were being intimate. But Santana, Rachel didn’t have to think to feel all sorts of desires. She didn’t even have to touch her. Just sing, or dance, or answer a question in their shared English class about a book they were studying with all the depth and knowledge of somebody who knew what they were talking about, and there was a fire lit in her stomach. 

It was new and it was electrifying. It wouldn’t be long before she burst at the seams and just told Santana how she felt. She’d always gone after what she’d wanted. Now she knew she had to take a little care, no matter how badly she wanted to lay all her cards on the table. A single heart at a time. 

Beyond that, Santana was elusive. A mystery. And what better muse than one that was hard to unpick and held everybody at arms length. Almost everybody. 

Rachel liked to think she was a perceptive person, and she’d noticed the bond that Santana and Brittany shared went beyond that of a standard best friendship. There’d been a shift lately, all at the introduction of a set of wheels, no doubt. Brittany dating Artie had been a surprise for everybody, but to Santana, it must’ve been something more. And as Rachel watched her smile at Brittany, a forced quality to it that differed from her usual ear splitting grin, she knew then how they could find some common ground.

Heartbreak. 

•••

“Santana.”

“Yes, Hobbit?” Despite the name calling, she slowed her pace to allow Rachel to catch up. She liked to think Santana was better at displaying kindness through her actions, rather than her words. 

“With Valentines coming up, I’d like for us to sing a duet together.” That had the girl stopping completely. 

“You want to sing a song for Valentines with me?” Her tone was incredulous, bordering on a scoff. 

“Well, no, but it can be inspired by Valentine’s Day.” 

“And why would I sing a duet with you, about love?” Santana raised an eyebrow as she continued walking, leading Rachel outside of the school building. 

“Well, we’re both single, right? And...I’m still pretty caught up on Finn. As you know, I wouldn’t have ended our relationship, but circumstances-“

“Yeah, you cheating on him with Puck. Which, by the why, I should’ve beat your ass for.” The threat was empty, but Rachel still clutched her books a little tighter to her chest. 

“Everybody knows that you and Puck aren’t exclusive. You don’t have a claim over him, Santana.”

“Well you and Finn were exclusive, and you kissed another guy anyway.” 

“That is besides the point.”

“Okay, but I don’t know how us being single means we have to sing a gay song together.” They’d reached Santana’s car, a surprisingly modern, sleek model that Rachel couldn’t discern from the emblem (she’d never been particularly versed in the world of automobiles).

“Whilst I resent your displeased tone surrounding the implications of a “gay song”, what with having two homosexual fathers, it wouldn’t be a love song.” 

“Then...what?” The confusion was evident in her furrowed brows as her hand rested on the car handle, as if waiting to make an escape. 

“It could be about our hatred for love. Whilst I don’t hate love, music is a mode of expression for feelings, and often  enhanced feelings. It could be a way of expressing how it sucks that Valentine’s Day is around the corner, and whilst a lot of the members of glee are shacked up, we’re not.” 

“I don’t know,” She said, suspicious, but humoured her a little longer, “What song?”

“We could figure that out together. I have some ideas, but the final decision will be unanimous.” 

“Let me think about it.”

Rachel found that to be quite a success, considering Santana hadn’t made fun of her nor shut down the idea immediately. 

She wasn’t particularly known for her patience. You might go so far as to say that nobody would describe Rachel as patient, but immediately refute the idea that she was. Yet, sometimes you had to play the long game, and she was willing, if not a little frustrated about it, to do such a thing. 

After all, things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m quite shocked the first glee fic I’m posting is a pezberry story. I’ve shipped brittana for several years, and only recently I’ve gotten into pezberry.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter and like where I take this story :) as always kudos and comments are appreciated x


	2. Act 1, Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moon-eyed and staring at Santana, Rachel sighed deeply, letting the play slump against her chest. 
> 
> “Rachel?”
> 
> And the fact she was referring to her by her name! She placed a hand on her forehead, sighing again. 
> 
> “Oh my God, if you’re gonna be a drama queen I’m leaving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hii, here’s chapter 2 :)) i hope you’re all doing well and staying safe!

**-**

She had a plan. A very precise, multi-faceted, layered plan with steps and directions. Although she knew one couldn’t force love, Rachel just wanted to give Santana the  chance to fall in love with her. So the basis of the plan - the watered down, simple version of it - was; create situations that allowed them to spend more time together. 

Rachel didn’t think the girl would willingly spend time with her, at least not to start with, but she’d been civil, if not kind to her lately, so only time would tell. 

The duet hadn’t quite worked, but Valentine’s was still a while away, so she had to find something else for the meantime. Something that not only got them to spend time together in a public space; a way for Santana to treat her nicely even with people around them, but also privately. 

The opportunity came about in the form of an English project in their shared class. A romantic project at that - reciting a love scene from a Shakespeare play of their choosing.

Rachel initially had been paired with Jacob Ben Israel, horrifyingly (she was quite certain that if she weren’t already planning on swapping partners, the universe was treating her cruelly on purpose). 

With a little behind the scenes scheming and classic deceit, she managed to acquire Santana as a partner. 

Although the girl had grumbled about Rachel stalking her lately when she primly took the seat beside her, which was a tremendous exaggeration, there wasn’t an overwhelming amount of complaints. And although she expected Santana to make her do the brunt of the work, with choosing the play and characterisation, she was ecstatic to have the chance to be closer to the girl (even if she’d executed it herself). 

“Let’s do Act 2, Scene 2 from Romeo and Juliet. You’ll be Romeo, I’ll be Juliet.” Before she could even find her copy of the play, nestled deep within her bag, something she’d accounted for when she found out what their project would be, Santana was shaking her head. 

“No.” 

“What?”

“I am  not doing Romeo and Juliet. Especially not that scene,” She scoffed, raising her hand to appraise her nails offhandedly. 

“Why not? You clearly don’t appreciate the romantic side of Shakespeare, or perhaps even Shakespeare hims-“

“No, because one, everybody’s going to choose Romeo and Juliet because that’s the only romantic Shakespeare play they know. Or rather, the only Shakespeare play they know. And two, I’m not romanticising suicide.”

_ Wow, she loved her. _

“How basic are you, Rachel? You seriously want to do that scene? I thought you’d know more Shakespeare than that, and have a deeper understanding of romance in literature,” Santana seemed to forget herself in her passion, because suddenly she was slumping in her seat, rolling her eyes. “Not that I do. Or care, or anything.” 

There were a few seconds of silence as Rachel just stared, her nerve endings alight. Perhaps she’d found somebody as interested in Shakespeare as herself. And somebody she loved, too! It only made her love her more.

“Quit staring. I’m not a Shakespeare nerd or anything. I’m just good at school stuff.” 

Blanching slightly, Rachel looked away with a hint of a blush. “Okay, well, what would you suggest we do?”

After a moments contemplation, Santana smirked, “Much Ado About nothing. You play Beatrice, I play Benedick. Then I can insult you. It’s still popular but not in that cliché kind of way.” 

Rachel wasn’t sure she liked the idea of Santana insulting her, Beatrice and Benedick had been rather ruthless to one another at the beginning of the story. But then she remembered the ending and how their relationship had evolved into mutual admiration. Before she could agree, Santana was continuing, seemingly displeased. 

“Or Twelfth Night. The glee club could do that one with all the pairings Shakespeare pushed.”

Rachel began to wonder how well versed in Shakespeare’s plays Santana was. 

“Oh, wait. The merchant of Venice. I’ll be Lorenzo, you Jessica.”

Narrowing her eyes, Rachel felt a little affronted. She didn’t appreciate typecasting. Unless, of course, the casting pertained to Funny Girl. That was an entirely different matter altogether. It’d be an offence if Fanny was played by anybody other than a Jewish woman (truthfully; she’d be offended if Fanny were played by anybody but her - she was, after all, destined to carry on Barbara Streisand’s legacy). 

“Is that just because I’m Jewish?” 

Santana sighed, folding her arms across her chest. “Okay, how about Macbeth? I doubt anyone will choose a tragedy, and we’d stand out.”

“But that ends so badly. And not in a romantic way,” She frowned, picking at the end of her sweater sleeve.

“Okay, fine, you pick then. But not something clichéd and stupid,” Rolling her eyes, she gave up, allowing Rachel to choose - which was how she’d expected the project to go, before Santana jumped in with all this Shakespeare knowledge and accusations against one of the greatest romantic plays ever written. It was enlightening though, and exhilarating to have somebody challenge her with something she was good at. 

“I like the idea of Much Ado About Nothing. Although the pair initially held an animosity towards one another, they eventually realised they were in love.”

Santana looked a little sceptical, probably noticing how close it sounded to their situation when summarised like that (minus the falling in love part, at least on the cheerleaders side) but nodded in agreement. 

“You realise we’d be reenacting Act 4, scene 1, so there would be no insults.” 

“Whatever. I’ll make up for that.” 

•••

When the doorbell rang, three minutes after their decided time - which was Rachel requesting a time and Santana rebutting it with another (most likely just to annoy her) - Rachel rushed to fluff up the cushions for the hundredth time, and straightened her hair in the hallway mirror as she passed by. 

She hadn’t overdressed, as to not make it obvious that she was trying to impress Santana, but she’d put a little care into her attire. Not often wearing jeans, she slipped on an old pair she hadn’t worn for a while that she knew accentuated her legs and behind rather nicely, and a simple black T-Shirt. 

It was a little different, but along the lines of the casual dress she usually wore around the house. Although, she didn’t usually wear pants so tight. 

Santana didn’t look like she’d put in much of an effort, sweatpants and a tank, but she looked effortlessly attractive. Rachel was a little distracted by the way the sweats clung to her hips, and almost forgot her usual hosting manners. 

“Good evening, Santana. I’m glad you could make it,” She forced a smile, trying to keep her eyes in appropriate places, being the polite young woman that she was. 

Santana just grunted in response, pushing herself past Rachel as she stepped out of the way. She slipped off her shoes, asking Rachel where she should put them, pulling at the strap of her bag. 

Now they were in Rachel’s territory, and she could tell the cheerleader was a little unsettled. 

“Would you like a drink? Water? Soda?” Rachel spoke over her shoulder as she lead Santana into the living room in the hopes that she was being checked out. Of course she had no way of knowing that, unless she turned around abruptly, but she didn’t want to make the girl uncomfortable. 

“Uh, water would be good.” 

“Sit right here,” Rachel pointed to a spot on the sofa with a wide smile, before traipsing off to the kitchen and coming back with some water. 

“So, got a ten step plan for us, Berry?” Santana asked as she took a sip, following Rachel’s lead by placing the glass on a coaster. 

“I think we should begin by reading through the scene individually to get a feel of our characters, then we can watch film versions to build up our understanding and see other people’s interpretations.” 

“Aight. Sounds good.”

“Do you have your own copy or would you like-“

“Got it.” 

“Okay, great. Let’s get started.” 

It was a little awkward, sitting on opposite ends of the couch in silence, the only sound the rustling of pages. It was worse when Rachel put the 1973 film adaptation on, the distraction of television less effective than reading.

She’d chanced a glance in Santana’s direction, but the girl had scowled at her. She had great peripheral vision. 

“Why did we just watch a Polish version?” Shequestioned once it’d finished, clearly displeased. 

“It was actually Russian,” Rachel corrected, “And I feel we should consider approaches that expand beyond our language barrier to get a real taste of how directors approach-“ 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Santana rolled her eyes, eliciting an affronted gasp at how quickly her meticulous approach to performing Shakespeare was disregarded. Interpretations were important. “Can we watch something I’ll actually understand?”

“There were subtitles, you should’ve understood perfectly,” Rachel huffed, reluctantly removing the DVD and placing it back in its case. 

“Yeah and that’s just reading the scene all over again, but with bits cut out. We’re not looking to broaden our horizons here by comparing the entire play and different critical approaches. We’re just performing  _ one _ scene.” 

She found herself not altogether disagreeing with Santana, but with her stubborn nature and superiority complex, she was unwilling to admit that; so sighed and made a scene of putting in the next CD. “Fine.” 

Choosing to ignore the quiet snicker behind her, most likely at her dramatics, Rachel settled back on the sofa with her arms crossed and a mulish frown overtaking her features. 

“If you start reciting this play in Russian we’re gonna have some problems, Berry,” Santana said after a beat, just when the scene had began - to Rachel’s chagrin. 

“Good job the extent of my Soviet knowledge only covers the Tsarist autocracy and Cold War.” 

“God, you’re so-“

“Can you please hush so we can watch the scene?” She interrupted before her insults could get out of hand. 

“Can you please hush so we can watch the scene,” Santana said in a high pitched, awful imitation. 

“Santana, I do not appreciate your childish mockery.”

“Whatever, Berry. Just start it again.” 

Despite the awful attitude, Rachel found the tension between them oddly exciting. Indifference was worse, because this- there was that passion. A spark of something, and although it was mostly fuelled by insults and Santana’s snark, it was still  _ something _ , rather than nothing. 

They restarted the 1993 version, then the 2012 black and white version, before Rachel decided that might’ve been enough content to work with, lest their performance have no originality.

There was silence as she organised the DVD’s and stowed them away with the rest of her movies, tucking her hair behind her ears when she’d finished. She was pretty certain Santana was checking out her butt where she was bent over, because her gaze averted quickly when Rachel turned around, and the triumphant feeling, mixed with a tug in her lower stomach, had her grinning. 

“So, do you have an idea of how you’re going to portray Benedick?”

“Yeah, I guess,” She shrugged, indifferent. 

It had already been half an hour, and Rachel didn’t think Santana would be planning on staying too long. She hoped to get in a chat that deviated from Shakespeare, to show that they could potentially find common ground and get along outside of singing songs together in glee. She just...didn’t quite know how to approach it. 

Asking too many questions would make Santana think she was digging into her business, or something equally as ridiculous, and talking about herself in the hopes she’d respond with her own anecdotes would probably lead to Santana thinking she was self-centred and could never shut up (more than she already did).

“Great. Where will you draw most your inspiration?” 

“Well...the Russian version was bullshit, and even with subtitles the character lacked depth. The 2012 version was okay, and the whole movie would probably be a great standout with the modern twist, but I think I prefer Benedick in Branaugh’s adaption. I mean, it’s the only movie version I’d seen before and I think he encapsulates his character and wit really well,” Trailing off awkwardly, she’d simultaneously avoided depth, and gave enough detail that suggested she’d thought about the adaptions more than she was portraying. 

Rachel felt a little awed, and shifted ever so slightly closer, so that her jean clad leg rested against off-white sweats. “Santana, it’s okay if you enjoy Shakespeare.”

The scoff in response was all the confirmation she needed. 

“I won’t tell anybody. And I can hardly judge you when I myself delight in Shakespeare’s literature.” 

She was quite certain Santana was going to blow her off and storm out or something, effectively ruining any chance of a good grade or progressive relationship between them, but then she was deflating, glancing at where their bodies were touching and shaking her head in resignation. “Alright, I like Shakespeare. I’m not like, a lamo who knows everything about the dude and has read every single thing of his. It’s just...it’s like music, you know?”

There was that thrill of finding something out about Santana, but also finding out they had a common interest as well as opinion. 

“That’s exactly what I think!” Eyes sparkling, a sign that she was on the verge of a soliloquy of her own, Rachel shifted even closer, a hand resting on her own thigh, fingertips brushing at Santana’s leg. “His plays are always rather poetic, and lyricism is just a form of poetry.”

“Exactly,” Surprisingly, she’d responded with a level of enthusiasm, like she was afraid Rachel would think she was stupid, only to have her thoughts validated. “It’s like reading art, only on paper. The same way music sounds like a painting, or just splashes of paint on a canvas. I always appreciated the poetry in his work.”

“Do you like poetry too, then?” Rachel was practically beaming, feeling like she’d gained a level of insight into the way Santana’s mind worked without reservations and HBIC masks. 

“Yeah. A bit,” Santana shrugged, as if it was nothing, but she could see the spark in her eyes; like she’d been waiting to talk to somebody about her passion for poetry and literature. 

“Shakespeare’s sonnets?”

“They’re dope. And I like them, but I prefer modern stuff when it comes to actual poetry.”

“Like who?”

“Uh, well Margaret Atwood has some good stuff. But I prefer her books.”

Rachel nodded along, having read some of Atwood’s stuff and agreeing that, yes, whilst she was a great poet, her novels had always been her strong suit. 

“Gwendolyn Brooks is brilliant, she was the first African American to win a Pulitzer Prize. I talk about my Puerto Rican descent a lot, but I’m also African American, so, I find some comfort in her work.” 

Sitting wide eyed and attentive, Rachel realised that she hadn’t known that, and it made her realise she hadn’t always been a great listener when it came to members of the glee club. Perhaps she had to reevaluate. Learning these little tidbits and passions that Santana had, it felt like a dream. An odd, wonderful dream. 

“Then there’s Mary Oliver, and Carol Ann Duffy.” 

“Oh, Carol! I love how she uses literary and pop culture references and displays her sexuality so openly throughout her works, with poems about both men and women. I have the World’s Wife, I don’t know if you’ve read it, but gosh, it’s one of my favourites! The way she depicts all these significant male figures through their wives. Oh, and Rapture! That was the first modern poetry collection I read that explores sapphic love so beautifully.”

Somewhere in her animated rant, Santana had recoiled slightly, turning in on herself. “Right.”

“I one day hope to produce work similar to Carol’s. I figured I’d have some trysts and passionate romances with men and women during college, a few bad ones along the way, and maybe even into my broadway career. Although broadway is my passion, poetry always keeps me on my toes. I’d take on a style similar to Duffy’s, incorporating techniques from some old school poets, because I do have a soft spot for the Romantic era, with a mix of contemporary influences.” 

Feeling she’d turned the spotlight onto herself when she’d been making some progress in learning more about the Latina, Rachel took a pause, trying to read Santana’s curious gaze. 

“Wait, men and women?” There was surprise, along with a slight tinge of curiosity. 

“Why, yes. I don’t trap myself in a heteronormative world view, and find that, limiting myself to only men will limit my experiences and the chance of finding true love. It might be growing up with two fathers that has made me more open to the idea, although sexuality is biological, the attitudes towards sexuality change when you’re in a more liberal environment. At least, that’s what I think.” 

Growing quiet, the girl seemed to think over this, tugging at the hem of her tank and shuffling about in her seat. “Why don’t you tell anybody?” 

“Well, I don’t actively hide it. It’s just never come up. And it’s not as if I’d find a girl willing for a romance at McKinley. If there are any girls with sapphic inclinations, they’re too far in the closet to even consider it.” 

There was a spark of hope there, like Santana didn’t feel quite so alone, like...Rachel might’ve been reading too far into it, but there was something. And perhaps this was where they’d bond further, where they’d share their strifes and hopes of the future, but then Santana was frowning, picking at a thread from her sweatpants. 

“Uh, it’s getting kinda late. I should head home.” As the girl stood abruptly, Rachel remained dazed, feeling floored. 

“It’s not even six.” 

“I’ve got dinner. My abuela’s joining, so.” 

“Oh, okay.” She tried to hide her disappointment, but despite her excellent acting skills, she’d never been great at concealing emotions. Especially intense ones. And this was an intense feeling of disappointment. Two steps back, when she was sure they’d taken a step forwards. 

“We can, uh, go over it more another time.”

She was already heading out towards the hallway, slipping on her shoes at the door. “Yeah, okay.” 

“I’ll see you later.” The farewell was weak, disappointment evident in her voice, but Santana was just as distracted as before, moving to leave the house. 

“Yeah. See ya.” Before walking out the door, Santana turned to her seriously. “If you tell anybody anything about how I like Shakespeare and poetry, I won’t hesitate to beat your ass.”

Gulping at the proximity and threatening tone to her voice, Rachel could only nod. 

When she was halfway down the drive, she turned, offering up a stiff smile. “Thanks, Rachel.” 

Santana still remained a mystery, despite the small part of her she’d learned that evening. Ruminating over what had caused such a volatile reaction, no answers came to her quickly, and she resigned herself to the knowledge that perhaps she’d never truly learn much about the cheerleader - at arms length just like everybody else. 

•••

They’d rarely interacted from that point onwards during school. Santana hadn’t even acknowledged her in lessons or in the hallway, which had Rachel thinking the night had to hold no significance to her. Yet, she remembered the sincerity in her voice when she’d thanked her. And maybe she was underestimating Santana.

The answer came in the form of a small smile when their eyes met across the choir room, and Rachel knew that, although the evening might not have held the same depth with Santana as it did with herself, it wasn’t nothing. There was something she’d taken away from it. Perhaps the opportunity to talk to somebody about something she was passionate about. And although her abrupt departure still didn’t sit right with her, she’d tried to brush it off and focus on what could come of their new relationship (no matter how hesitant it was). 

•••

Their next practice session was a few days later. Rather than going to Rachel’s house, they’d found out they shared a study period when planning when to next meet, and decided on finding a spare classroom. 

Santana sat on the chair backwards, arms draped over the back of it as Much Ado About Nothing rested lazily in her hands. 

“Is there any way to show such friendship?” She drawled, head moving to rest against her arms. 

“Santana, your lack of enthusiasm makes for a rather unproductive rehearsal,” Rachel sighed, placing the play face down on the desk. 

“M’tired,” She murmered back, voice muffled by her elbow. 

Rachel hated that she found it entirely too endearing. That she was seeing a somewhat vulnerable side of her, all due to some sleepiness. 

“Then maybe you should stick to an efficient sleep schedule, and tiredness during school hours would be avoided,” She huffed, not appreciating the slow start to their hour together. 

“You’re so uptight,” She grumbled, rubbing her eyes as they met the bright lights of the classroom. 

“I resent that accusation.” 

“When do you do anything for fun that doesn’t fit in with your career plans and future?”

“I find several ways to relax and have fun. I just don’t see how slacking when we only have forty minutes is in any way logical.”

Santana’s scoff was every bit infuriating, reminding Rachel why she might not have figured out her attraction for so long. “Yeah, right.” 

“Fine. I guess I’ll just take a rest. My Biology lesson this morning was rather taxing.” Kicking her feet up on the desk, something she’d neveractually done (finding it was rather unsanitary) she leant back in her chair and crossed her arms behind her head as a makeshift pillow. 

There was a beat before Santana was sighing, most likely rolling her eyes. 

“Okay, I’ll stop trying to nap,” She said, but Rachel’s eyes remained screwed shut. 

“No, it’s perfectly fine with me if we just relax today,” She waved off, slumping further in her seat. 

“Rachel.”

“What? I’m just doing as you said and being less uptight.” 

“Okay, I get it, I get it.” Sitting properly in her seat, Santana raised her book with a dramatic flourish, whilst Rachel watched with one eye peaked open. “I’m up. Just read your damn line.”

Shaking her head, she lifted her version of the play, leaving her feet up on the desk.  “A very even way, but no such friend.”

“May a man do it?” 

“It is a man’s office, but not yours.”

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange?” 

Moon-eyed and staring at Santana, Rachel sighed deeply, letting the play slump against her chest. Perhaps this was a bad idea. How she could disguise her affections when Santana was confessing her love in the character of Benedick was beyond her. 

“Rachel?”

And the fact she was referring to her by her name! She placed a hand on her forehead, sighing again. 

“Oh my God, if you’re gonna be a drama queen I’m leaving.” The sound of movement, as if she were about to pack away her stuff and flee the room had Rachel panicking. 

“No, no! I’m fine.” Sitting abruptly, she made to reach for her arm but slapped the desk instead. 

“Why are you huffing and puffing again? We’re not doing the three little pigs,” Santana said, a little exasperation in her voice. “Jesus, you’re so hard to please.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m being very unprofessional.” 

Santana rolled her eyes, a character trait at this point. “This isn’t a script reading for a broadway show.” 

Rachel really had to focus. But instead she found herself distracted once again by Santana’s impatience; finger tapping against the desk, a pointed stare urging her to continue reading. 

Hypocrisy wasn’t a good look, considering she’d only just reprimanded Santana for slacking, but before she knew it she was shifting her chair so that it was a little closer to the cheerleader’s, Much Ado About Nothing long forgotten.“Do you write your own poetry, Santana?” 

A little taken aback by the question, she hesitated. “Sometimes, I guess.” 

“Do you write your own songs?” She continued, eyes lighting up as she rested her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow reaching Santana’s desk.

Dark eyes flitted to it for a second, narrowing, before she was shrugging. “If I get a good melody going.”

“Do you play an instrument, then?” 

“ _Jeez_ Berry, what is this? Twenty questions?” Santana scoffed, rocking back in her seat like she was trying to move further away, looking put on the spot. 

“No. I count 5, including the two you just asked,” She said, quite seriously, but Santana was glaring. 

“Don’t be a smart ass.” Arms folded, a classic defensive stance, Santana was eyeing Rachel’s elbow again as if it’s mere existence offended her. “What about you then? Write any poetry, write any songs?”

It wasn’t often Santana found any remote interest in what Rachel did. And although she recognised it as a sort of deflection from her torrent of questions, she felt the need to jump at the chance of answering.

“I often write poetry, but I can’t seem to translate any of that into lyrics or musical ideas.” 

The girl seemed to ponder over this, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then she was leaning forwards, elbow close to Rachel’s. “Look, if you’re any good at poetry, and I know you’re brilliant with music, it’s easy to put them together. You’ve just gotta know some basic music theory, know an instrument or at least be able to put something together on GarageBand, and then whatever you put into the poetry you’re writing - put it into song.” 

There came that awe that always preceded anything more than a sharp retort from the Latina. The compliment, the faith, Rachel was practically buzzing under the attention. 

“Okay,” She nodded dumbly, stumped for words. There were too many metaphors taking up space in her mind. 

Santana raised an eyebrow, glancing down to the book in Rachel’s hand as if to urge her to continue reading. Feeling the conversation slipping away from them, she made a quick decision. 

“Would you- I mean, you don’t have to, and you’re rather private so I doubt you’d want to, or even consider showing  _me_ , of all people-“

“Spit it out.” 

Taking a deep breath, Rachel clasped her hands together and squared Santana with a very serious look. “Could I hear it some day?” 

“My music?”

“Yes. Or the poetry.” Rachel would take anything that had some sort of emotional depth from Santana. A part of her thought that, perhaps her music wasn’t that emotional, but the way she spoke about it. The way she spoke about poetry and Shakespeare and the meaning it had to her, Rachel just  knew she put her soul into it. 

“I don’t know,” Santana shrugged, a little self conscious it seemed. Frowning, she tried to hide her disappointment. “I don’t really show many people. Or any people.”

“What about Brittany?” She dared to ask, wondering if Santana had ever sang something original to her, or slipped a poem into her locker. The idea that some day Santana could do that for her...Rachel was sure she was having palpitations. 

“She’s heard bits and pieces here and there, but, I don’t know. I don’t like showing it.” She was pulling at the edge of her Cheerios shirt, clearly not used to talking in depth about the things she was passionate about. “It’s not like a confidence thing, I’m hot shit and I know it. I just, it’s personal.” 

Rachel didn’t completely believe Santana. She was certain there was an element of confidence (or lack thereof) that was preventing her from showing others. But it made sense. 

Santana was very obviously a closed book. The relationships she’d formed with the rest of the glee club were all surface level. Even her insults never went  too deep. It was like she’d removed herself emotionally from the people around her, and although Rachel was getting glimpses into her mind and the things she liked, there was still a barrier there. Still distance. 

It wasn’t like Santana was confessing anything too profound or putting her poetry on the table. She still kept the rhymes close to her chest, behind several layers of protection. Even though Rachel knew they were there, she didn’t know  _ what  _ they were. 

That unwillingness to portray any type of emotional vulnerability didn’t mean she didn’t feel. She’d heard jokes, even from the glee kids, that the girl didn’t have a heart. That she was cold and passive. It was easy to come to that conclusion, what with her brash words and resting bitch face. Rachel liked to think she saw beyond that. 

She just hoped Santana could somehow trust her enough to truly show her. Not glimpses or the same surface level stuff - but the real depths of emotions she was sure her music and poetry expressed. 

“Look, are we practising or not? Cause if not I have a meeting with the bed in the nurses office and my pitiful pleas for a half an hour rest,” Santana was frowning, folding and unfolding the corner of her page. 

“Yes, let’s get on with it then.” Perhaps she’d have to push another time. 

They weren’t quite close enough to be called friends, but Rachel thought there was progress. 

When Santana sat next to her in glee club the next day, she tried not to read into it too much. She didn’t actually say anything to her, or really acknowledge her much, but the presence beside her was hard to ignore. 

It’d thrown her off her game so to speak, because she was quiet for most of the session. They’d sat beside one another before (mostly because everybody else had taken the other seats) so it wasn’t entirely foreign, but with her new feelings, and the fact that Santana had several other seats to choose from being surprisingly early, Rachel  was reading into it. It was in her nature to warp reality to suit her feelings. 

So most of glee she was trying not to lean into Santana’s warmth rather than ranting about solos and how they should pay tribute to Streisand at regionals. 

The group performance mid way through, spontaneous, was some modern song Mercedes or Tina had chosen - something Rachel was familiar with, being that she tried to be well versed in all types of music at all times, including the top hits - no matter how talentless a lot of the artists were.

Santana smiled at her as they sang, bumping her shoulder, and she couldn’t even find it within herself to be annoyed that she was a mere background vocal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know your thoughts if you have any! man rachel has like the best mind for this type of story, i’ll never tire of her dramatics.
> 
> until next time xx


	3. Act I, Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, Santana would never want to speak to her again. She’d probably kick her out before dinner and then a storm would start and her favourite sweater would be ruined. Stranded, cold, alone, she’d stumble home and be too mortified to ever return to McKinley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this even though I had a migraine tonight and am pretty tired, so, I hope it’s okay :))

Heading home, her thoughts dwelled on the  one person they’d been dwelling on for the better part of a few weeks, stuck on a loop. She’d almost crashed into the curb when they’d slipped into some poetic verse about the way Santana’s teeth touched her bottom lip. 

Perhaps one could say she was mad with love (not to be mistaken for a Beyoncé song). Like Hamlet appeared to Ophelia and her father. Maybe Santana would find out and think she was crazy. Or try to beat her up like one did in Lima Height’s. 

Or perhaps it’d remain a secret until they went their separate ways, only coming to the surface when they meet ten years later and realise with adulthood they’re perfect for each other with Santana no longer held back by reputation (and out the closest), and Rachel matured into a successful woman. She’d already have a Tony and hopefully an Emmy or Oscar by then. 

A flash of red and white had Rachel slowing, a concerned crease to her brow as she pulled to a stop by the sidewalk, rolling down the passenger window and leaning over the console to talk. It was almost like she’d manifested this with her wandering thoughts alone. “Why are you walking?” 

“Flat tire.” Was all she offered up, seeming displeased at the hold up despite her rather sluggish pace beforehand. 

“Would you like a ride home?” When Santana stayed put, features blank, she patted the seat beside her. “It looks like it’s going to rain.” 

With a shrug she opened the door, a quiet thanks as she clicked her seatbelt in and placed her bag between her feet. Rachel might’ve driven to Lima Heights Adjacent If Santana hadn’t told her to go to the Heights. At her raised eyebrows, she grumbled something about her abuela living on the wrong side of the tracks and not wanting to move, and she was practically there every day. 

The rest of the drive was quiet, the stereo turned off and only the sound of the engine filling the space where conversation should’ve been. 

Rachel’s prediction was correct and the rain started up within a few minutes of silence. She nervously clicked on her windscreen wipers, never having felt comfortable driving when the sky wasn’t clear. 

Listening attentively as Santana spoke directions in her ear whilst trying to keep the car from aquaplaning figured to be difficult, and she took a couple of wrong turns, but soon enough she was pulling up to a rather large house, putting her car in neutral.

“Do you wanna come in till the rain clears up? It’s pretty bad,” Santana asked unexpectedly, the handle of her bag gripped in her first. 

Rachel hesitated. “Are you sure?”

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. Of course she’d love to see more of Santana’s home and spend some time with her. It’s just, she wasn’t quite sure what the girls motive was.

“You did drive me home, so,” Shrugging, she offered up a half smile. So - gratitude. Perhaps a sympathy invite. That wasn’t a dangerous motive. 

Feeling the socially acceptable time to make a decision like this was stretching thin, she nodded silently, killing the ignition. 

Santana lifted her bag over her head as she jogged towards the door, Rachel stumbling behind trying to cover her bangs with her hand whilst locking the car over her shoulder. Not that she’d even need to in a neighbourhood like this. 

“Want a drink? Please don’t say some weird lemon and honey tea shit or something.” 

“Water’s fine.” 

Santana gestured for her to follow once they’d slipped their shoes off, pointing to a stool against the impressive kitchen island whilst she routed around in the fridge. 

There weren’t a whole lot of pictures lining the walls, but there was one of Santana as a child, eight or nine, with a a mullet and a leather vest, carrying a little pumpkin bucket. Beside it, a few inches down, was a wedding picture of who she supposed were Santana’s parents.

“Uncle Jesse,” She supplied as she handed over a bottle of water, pointing to the picture Rachel had been staring at. “From Full House.” 

“You went as Uncle Jesse for Halloween?” Rachel said around a laugh, glancing between the picture and Santana with, what she was sure was, unadulterated incredulousness. 

“What can I say? I had taste,” She shrugged with a grin, sitting opposite her. 

Playing with the cap of her water, she watched Santana uncap her own and take a big sip, throat bobbing. Rachel couldn’t stop herself from appraising the sharpness of her jaw, tilted back, and the curve of her neck. Not wanting to be caught staring and be at the receiving end of Snix’s anger, she pulled at the edge of the label. 

“You know, it’d be better for the environment if you stuck to tap water. Plastic bottles-“

“Yeah yeah, bad for the ocean and whatever. My mom buys them in bulk and gets annoyed when I don’t drink them. She says I don’t drink enough,” She watched Rachel for a beat, before sighing. “If it’s against your morals or some shit, I’ll make you a glass of tap water.” 

“You would?” She couldn’t help the awed tone, voice raising significantly at the end of her sentence. 

“I mean, it’s whatever. You’re like my guest, gots to have them host manners and shit. And it’s not like I’m collecting it from the community well a mile down the street. My sink is right there.” 

“Well, thank you. That would be nice.” Santana just snatched the bottle from her hands with an eye roll, most likely at her remarkable articulation, which went unappreciated by most teenagers. 

When she came back, glass of cold water in hand, they fell into an awkward silence. 

It might’ve been smart to bring up glee or their English project, but Santana was looking around like trying to find conversation starters in the wall, and suddenly Rachel didn’t feel as nervous. 

“So...you, uh, found any good music lately?” Smiling to herself, Rachel placed her glass of water down, ready to make some useful recommendations. “Not like, Broadway stuff.” 

“You know, just because I’m fond of Broadway, that doesn’t mean my playlist is limited to musicals alone. I listen to quite a wide range of music, I feel it helps me to be more in tune with the musical world.” 

“Right,” Santana nodded, perhaps unbelieving, or trying to hold back a laugh at her wording. It wouldn’t surprise her. 

“I’ve been listening to some alternative rock lately. I find the writers are often poetic. Arctic monkeys for example.” 

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Berry, but I actually dig that band,” She clapped, a dramatic flourish to it as Rachel tried not to humour her by laughing. 

A sudden clatter of shoes against the entryway floor had Santana straightening up, drumming against the table. The thought of meeting one of the Lopez’s had her chest tightening uncomfortably. 

They’d both missed the sound of the door, and if Santana’s posture was anything to go by, she wasn’t expecting anybody home so early.

A few beats later Santana’s mother walked into view, relaxed expression shifting when she spotted Rachel. “Mija, who’s your friend?”

“This is Rachel.” 

She offered up a small wave to the woman, seeing a striking resemblance to Santana, just older and, although she regretted thinking it, warmer.

“From glee club?” Mrs Lopez asked, a soft smile on her face. 

“Yeah.” 

Rachel wondered for a second if Santana had talked about her, and if that’s how her mother knew who she was. 

“You were great at sectional’s Rachel.” Oh  _ that’s _ how. She tried to fight the disappointment, it shouldn’t have been something she’d expected of Santana. 

“Thank you, Mrs Lopez,” She ducked her head, humble despite her self awareness regarding her impeccable talent.

“Maribel,” She corrected, squeezing Santana’s shoulder as she passed her. 

“Right, Maribel.”

The woman clacked off, hanging up her coat and slipping off her heels, disappearing for a moment and coming back without her bag. 

“Are you staying for dinner Rachel?”

“No Mamá, she just gave me a ride home so I invited her in because of the weather. She probably has to get home,” Santana said, what sounded very much like a dismissal to Rachel. She remembered then that they weren’t friends. They were just project partners, and perhaps that’s all they’d ever be to Santana. 

“Why didn’t you drive?” 

There was a pause, Santana looking down at the marble counter and gripping the edge of it. “Flat tire.”

Maribel floundered for a second, eyes narrowing as she looked at her daughter. “Santana! Why didn’t you call me?”

“You said you had that meeting. Didn’t wanna disturb you,” She mumbled, looking every bit an insolent teenager. Far removed from her high school persona. 

It was strange to see, reminding Rachel that the glee club had branded Santana as this ruthless bitch, when really she was just a girl who had a bit of a mean streak, and when she was at home she was being reprimanded for flat tires. A normal teenager with protective parents. 

“Ay dios mío, no puedo creerte, que tonta eres,” Maribel ranted as she moved around the island to stand before Santana, searching for eye contact. Rachel didn’t have a clue what she’d said passed damning God, perhaps she’d have to brush up on her Spanish. “You were going to walk home in this rain?” 

“It’s fine. Rachel drove by before it started.” 

“Ay, well, you better phone me if it happens again. Meeting or not.” 

“Yes, Mamí.” Maribel squeezed Santana’s shoulder again, but the frown remained on her features. Rachel wondered if, like Santana, she showed kindness through gestures. 

“I’ll get your father to drive by and change it after work. You’ll have to find another way to get to school tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk,” She shrugged, a little calmer now that the worst of the reaction was out of the way. 

“You have Cheerios practice in the morning. You’ll be tired.” 

“I can drive you,” Rachel interjected, trying desperately not to sound desperate. Santana raised her eyebrows, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend why Rachel was offering to go out of her way for her. “My house isn’t far from here.” 

“You sure?” She asked, sceptical, but Mrs Lopez was smiling like Rachel had offered to do her groceries for a month, so the nod came easy to her. “Okay then.”

•••

Mornings, perhaps, weren’t Santana’s prime time of day, if the scowl on her face was any indicator. Nevertheless, as the Latina slid into her car, she handed over a thermos, grumbling something about how her mom forced her to make Rachel coffee in thanks. 

Despite Mrs Lopez’s hand in the gesture, she felt her chest warming. “It’s soy milk,” She said before Rachel could question it, only making the warmth spread further, right up to her ears. “She also said something about dinner. I mean, it’s not like we’re close friends or anything but we’re in glee or whatever, and when my mom wants something she usually gets it, so.”

“You want me to have dinner at your house?” She was taken aback, hands gripping the wheel tightly. 

“My  _ mom _ does. We can just do the English project and rush through a meal with her and my dad if he gets home early enough,” She shrugged, clipping her seatbelt into place. 

“Oh. Well, if your mother insists.” Rachel didn’t want to start driving whilst the conversation was continuing, so she fiddled about with the heater instead. 

“You don’t have to. It’s not like, an obligation.” 

“I’d like to.” Shifting the car into first gear, she offered up a smile to Santana, pleased there was one in response. 

“Okay. Thursday sound good? She said she’d make something vegan for all of us.” 

The next couple of days were filled with mild anguish. An anticipation for the Thursday to come. Dining with Santana and her parents in their home...there seemed like a lot at stake. 

Firstly, Santana could be as brash as usual, or even worse, she could be all sunshine and smiles - an act, just to appease her parents. Secondly, the Lopez’s could disapprove of her and there would be no way anything could come of her and Santana’s relationship. Thirdly...well, there was the chance she’d embarrass herself, or do something to offend the family, or- the list went on. 

Every possibility was considered carefully, both positive and negative, and it only aided in worsening her nerves. 

They knocked off her focus on music and glee, which, how could’ve she let everything get so jumbled up that she was losing focus of the most important things in her life? Not even Finn had distracted her from music, but now she couldn’t sing without sounding jittery. Perhaps the risk of hitting the lockers would’ve been more beneficial than whatever had happened since she’d realised she was in love. 

Thursday came just as quickly as it would’ve if she wasn’t having dinner with Santana. 

The house looked just the same, not that she’d expected it to suddenly change in the course of a few days, but there was a different atmosphere. Before it’d been still, a little awkward with just herself and Santana and the silence. Now there was Maribel in the kitchen, over the stove cooking up something that smelled rather delicious, and Santana’s father was finishing up some paperwork he’d brought home to make it to dinner. 

He was a little sterner than Maribel, jaw and eyes sharp, almost calculating. But he’d warmed up at Rachel’s manners, and most likely her charm. She could see the similarities in Santana’s nose, jaw, but surprisingly she thought the warmth in her eyes, and softness of her features reflected Maribel’s. 

Whilst the adults worked downstairs, Santana led Rachel to her bedroom. 

It wasn’t anything that she’d really expected. Perhaps the dark colour scheme was slightly anticipated, but it was surprisingly cosy and had a unique character to it - with the poster above her bed (something to do with reggae by her quick judgement) and the small figure statues on the side. There were a few pictures dotted about, and it looked like Santana had put in the effort to tidy because everything looked spotless, even for Rachel’s standards.

“So, Beatrice. Let’s get this thing moving.” 

They stood beside Santana’s bed, Much Ado About Nothing’s in hand, but Rachel’s eyes kept straying around the room, often late for her lines. They were mostly drawn to the pictures - young Santana with her parents, preteen Santana beside Brittany, cheerleader Santana. It was nice to see the youth had remained in her cheeks, round and soft despite the sharpness of her jaw when she turned to the side. 

“If you’re gonna keep looking around and trying to sneak a peak at my stuff then we won’t get through this.” Her eyes snapped towards the voice, finding Santana with the book resting at her side like she’d been waiting for a good while. Rachel wondered for a second why she hadn’t alerted her earlier. Perhaps she was trying not to laugh at her distracted state. 

Feeling her cheeks flush, she looked down a little bashfully, a quiet, “Sorry,” escaping her lips as she tugged at the edge of her sweater sleeve. It was cashmere, a gift from her grandmother not long before she’d passed. She’d never dared to wear it to school with the threat of slushies, but it felt like an important enough occasion, even if Santana was adamant it was as casual as any dinner went - especially since they weren’t particularly close. 

It had the added benefit of fitting nicely to her body, a colour that she’d been told, both by Finn and Jessie, brought out her eyes and made her complexion look nicer (whatever that meant - the latter was a compliment from Jessie alone). 

She might’ve noticed Santana’s eyes being a little more appraising than usual, but that could’ve been a sort of placebo. If she thought she looked better, then she’d imagine others thought the same.

“Do you wanna just chill? I can put on some music or whatever. Show you what real diversity is like.” 

Rachel smiled, shutting the play in answer, excited to see what Santana would introduce her to - if she hadn’t heard the artist before. 

“Awesome!” She gave a giddy little grin, something she’d never seen before, rushing off to a shelf Rachel hadn’t noticed yet. Pulling out a vinyl from a box below it, she opened up her record player. 

It was a little surprising, although it shouldn’t have been, that she was choosing to use a record player. She was learning to never underestimate the girl. 

When the music started up, a steady beat filling up the room - warm and soulful, Rachel found her heart speeding up a little as Santana ushered her to sit on her bed, dropping down beside her. 

“I usually listen to this when I want to unwind. It’s not my favourite genre but, it’s calming,” She said, leaning back on her elbows and looking up at a stiff Rachel. “Did you sit on my curling iron or something? Relax.” 

She tried to get a little more comfortable, ignoring Santana’s close proximity. 

“He’s called Peter Tosh if you were wondering. One of the best roots reggae artists. He was part of Bob Marley and the Wailers, I always preferred him over Marley when he went solo. I don’t know if it’s because less people know him. At least, white people.” 

Rachel smiled, taking in Santana’s passion and closing her eyes to appreciate the rich undertones to the music. “It’s nice. I haven’t listened to much reggae but I like it.” 

“Good.” When she opened her eyes, Santana was smiling at her, a warmth to it she hadn’t yet seen in its entirety, until then. “I do have some Marley if it’s something you’re more familiar with.”

Shaking her head to reassure her that, no, the music choice was perfectly adequate, and was refreshing - something new - she took the initiative to lie backwards, the same as Santana. 

“My Dad has a Bob Marley vinyl. And the Tennors. It brings back memories of him drinking a glass of wine after work with some music on and letting me have my juice in a wine glass.” 

“I have some stuff by Ronnie Davis, he was in the Tennors,” Santana remarked, stretching out so her hands were behind her head. “If only we had some pot right now.” 

At Rachel’s scandalised look, she burst into laughter, head thrown back against her bed, eyes creased at the sides and mouth curving almost painfully. It was a beautiful sight, seeing somebody usually so stoic in a state of unadulterated amusement. Happiness, even. The laughter in itself was endearing to Rachel. Something oddly adorable. She felt as if she was seeing a vulnerable side to Santana, no matter how trivial, and she couldn’t help but laugh along, even if it was at her own expense. 

“You should’ve seen your face!” 

“Yes, well, I take drugs very seriously,” She spoke around the remnants of her chuckle, a little breathless. Santana’s chest was heaving from the force of her laugh, and perhaps she caught Rachel’s line of site because she scooted closer. 

“Reggae so puts me in the mood.” In her internal panic, she missed Santana’s playful smirk - a sign that she was messing with her. 

“It does?” She squeaked out, cheeks hot as deft fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“Mhm,” Santana hummed out, low, close to her ear. “Wanna make out?” 

There was stunned silence, then a quiet yes that passed Rachel’s lips before she could stop it. Perhaps she’d blame it on the fact the song changed and the new drum line caught her off guard. Or the warmth from Santana’s suddenly loosened fingers, the fluttering in her stomach from watching her so carefree. 

“What?” Rachel didn’t dare look in her direction, but the alarm in her voice was telling enough. 

“I didn’t say anything,” She rushed out, peaking out of the corner of her eye to see her open mouthed, eyebrows raised as far as they could. 

_ Oh god, _ Santana would never want to speak to her again. She’d probably kick her out before dinner and then a storm would start and her favourite sweater would be ruined. Stranded, cold, alone, she’d stumble home and be too mortified to ever return to McKinley. Forced to transfer to a new school with even less of an emphasis on the arts, she’d never follow her Broadway dreams and become a Lima loser; working in a quaint flower shop, that after five years of tremulous business, gets foreclosed. Taking her newborn son, born out of a loveless relationship that saw the father hopping towns once the pregnancy was announced, she’d have to live with her fathers until their old age, where they’d die and leave their home. Rachel’s son would attend McKinley, starting a vicious cycle of Lima bound Berry’s. 

“I was kidding,” Santana said, almost a whisper, shuffling in her place beside her. 

“Right, of course. Of course you were. So was I!” There really wasn’t much she could do to dig herself out of this one. 

“I thought you didn’t say anything?”

“I meant, I didn’t say anything that I meant,” She fumbled, staring up at the ceiling above, focusing on a dent in the plaster. 

Wondering how it’d gotten there reduced the pounding of her heart to a more subtle knocking against the ribs. 

“Okay...” With a glance to her right, she saw Santana tugging at her lip with her teeth. “It doesn’t actually put me in the mood. I mean, it makes me feel calm, and you know, relaxed. But, I’m not like, turned on or anything, right now. That would be kind of creepy.” Rachel realised that she’d never heard Santana ramble until that moment. Not in that rushed, anguished sort of way. She wondered why she felt the need to rectify. 

“Okay.” 

An awkward pause followed, the music almost mocking in the way it continued to play, emphasising the silence between them. 

Turning again, she saw that Santana was facing her already. 

She was surprised when a plethora of mental poetry didn’t overwhelm her. Instead, she noted the way Santana’s eyes were flicking to her mouth, and the scar beneath her lip where a mole might’ve once been. Just observations. Not exaggerated realities, bordering on fantasy. 

Before she could comprehend the situation, think more until the reality did become extended metaphors, there was no space between them. 

The first thought she had was that Santana’s lips were very soft. She’d never kissed a girl before, well, there was Tina, but that was during spin the bottle when they were both drunk and there wasn’t anything there (obviously). The only real comparison she had were guys. 

It’s not like there was an inherent difference. Jessie was soft, but his hands were still firm. He was the best kisser out of all them, perhaps out of experience, but Puck’s tongue was too relentless, almost uncomfortably so, and he’d had just as much experience (more, even). Finn was okay - if a little clumsy when it came to kissing. He got worked up too quickly for it to have any lasting effect on her. 

Santana, Santana was soft in ways they weren’t. A delicate hand came up to rest against her jaw, the skin at her own jaw was soft, no hint of premature stubble, and there was no tongue yet. Just lips moving together. 

It might not have had anything to do with gender, but perhaps who it was she was kissing. 

Rachel could feel her pulse against her fingertips where they rested against the dip in Santana’s neck. It wasn’t so much loving as it was passionate. Perhaps the two were synonymous, but she wasn’t feeling fireworks or a tug at her chest, it was more a tug at her lower stomach and a thrumming through her veins. 

The steady beat of the music became distant with the sound of Santana’s sharp intake of breath as Rachel dared to thread her fingers through her hair, and the feel of a hand gripping at her hip. Swiping her tongue against her lower lip, sticky with remnants of lip gloss, Santana responded immediately by opening her mouth and deepening the kiss. Was the room always this hot? Rachel felt herself getting carried away, shifting so that her leg draped over Santana’s, half lying on her. Both of the girls hands were now situated on her hips, a loose grip that got tighter as they continued, daring to shift slightly lower. 

She didn’t feel the urge to swat Santana’s hands away, but instead felt an unbridled need to bring them closer. 

She might’ve if it weren’t for the muffled, “Santana, dinners ready!”, from downstairs, effectively breaking the moment and separating them rather abruptly. 

“Oh.” She sat, a little stunned, fingertip brushing over her lips as she watched Santana slink over to the mirror to sort out her hair. Turning off her vinyl, she avoided Rachel’s eyes, shifting about the room rather erratically. 

Before she could make her way out of the door, Santana grabbed her by the wrist. 

“This won’t be weird now, will it?” 

Rachel could only shake her head, barely turning. 

“I mean, we just made out a bit,” Tugging her lightly so that their eyes met face on, earnestness in them, she pushed, “You did that with Puck, and you guys went back to normal afterwards, right..?”

It hurt, because she didn’t love Puck. That was just a silly little farce. An act of rebellion. Santana was- she was more than that to Rachel, but she couldn’t stand the rejection, so she forced a smile. “Yeah.” 

“Okay. Good.” 

It was awkward to say the least. The dinner consisted mostly of Santana and Rachel avoiding each other’s eyes as much as they could as Mr and Mrs Lopez tried to engage them in conversation. Rachel was receptive of course, she had manners, and answered any and all questions they threw her way, retorting with questions of her own and enhancing the conversation. 

She could barely look at Santana without feeling either a jolt in her lower stomach, eyes immediately shifting to her lips, or a jolt through her heart, mind immediately shifting to the dismissal. Trying to comprehend everything was rather hard. She couldn’t quite compartmentalise any reason why, firstly; Santana might wish to make out with her, and secondly; why she’d do so and then backtrack as if she hadn’t wanted it to happen. Rachel hadn’t expected any form of reciprocation from Santana so early, and although it wasn’t the sort she wanted, there was some pride, some elation at the fact that there must’ve been something that drew her to the girl. Some appeasing attribute that had them kissing in the middle of her bed, lying horizontally across it with reggae playing, her parents preparing dinner downstairs. 

It all seemed so absurd. She almost didn’t believe it had even happened. Perhaps her mental poetry was so strong she’d warped reality. 

Or maybe, just maybe, Santana was slightly attracted to her. It wasn’t so hard to believe, despite all the insults. She insulted Puck and Finn all the time and she’d still slept with them. Although, that wasn’t exactly reassuring, considering Rachel was convinced she wasn’t even all that attracted to men, and even if she were, they were strictly no strings attached agreements. 

Rachel had several strings and they were all attached. 

“Rachel, Santana mentioned you liked Broadway.” 

Choosing to shut her thoughts down for a while in favour of talking about herself, she went through the rest of the meal successfully blocking out the nagging thoughts of Santana Lopez and her stupidly attractive lips. 

The dinner overall was quite pleasant. Other than the silence between them and their avoided eye contact, Santana wasn’t necessarily acting any different than when they were together alone - something she’d been fearing. She wasn’t overcompensating for her parents, putting on a smile and false words. She was dry, like usual, but not too harsh, joking with her parents like she would the glee club when she was in a happier mood, and occasionally sending a jibe Rachel’s way. 

It was still a relief when they’d all finished, the tension dissipating a little without the looming threat of food to get through. 

Offering to help clean up, Mr Lopez shook his head, “Nonsense. Rachel, you sit right here.” 

“I insist.”

“Okay.” Mrs Lopez had stood to begin collecting the plates, and Rachel followed suit whilst Santana watched her with a raised brow. “Why don’t I wash, you dry?” 

The other Lopez’s shrugged, perhaps stumped as to why Rachel was willingly accepting labour. It was in her nature to be polite. 

When they’d set the plates down on the kitchen side, Santana and her father’s voices distant, Maribel turned to her with a smile. “Rachel, you don’t need to dry. We have a dishwasher. I just wanted to talk to you.” 

Feeling more than a little taken aback, she tugged at the edge of her sweater sleeve with a timid, “You did?” 

Nodding her head, Mrs Lopez began rinsing a plate, before crouching down and placing it on a rack inside the dishwasher. A casual movement that told Rachel not to be nervous. At least that’s how she interpreted it. She still felt a little out of place and awkward, standing there whilst Santana’s mother cleared up. 

“This project you’re working on, has it brought you closer to Santana?” 

“Um, yes.” Trying not to think about exactly how  close it’d gotten them just before dinner, she focused on the grey tile that lined the walls. “At least, I think so.”

“Santana doesn’t have many friends, Rachel,” Standing to face her, Maribel was direct, avoiding tergiversating (or beating around the bush as some might prefer to call it). “She’s pretty headstrong and uses her words like a whip, she got that from her abuela, so people don’t usually find her agreeable.” 

“She’s not always like that,” Rachel protested, eyes wide from the woman’s direct approach. Mrs Lopez nodded in agreement, almost a pitiful smile tugging at her features. 

“I know she puts on this strong face, you know, the popular cheerleader type. But her closest friends were Quinn and Brittany. And, well, you know that her and Brittany have fallen out, and Quinn is barely around anymore. I think it was the head cheerleader drama that got between them.” Shaking her head as if she’d gotten off track, Maribel continued to put away the last of the dishes before squaring Rachel with a serious look. “All I’m saying is, I’m glad Santana has you as a friend. I know you didn’t have the best relationship before, but you seem to get along well now. You’re a lovely girl, Rachel.”

Feeling her throat constricting under the weight of her words, she glanced down at her clasped hands. The gratitude and approval from Santana’s mother was more than she’d thought she’d be getting this evening. It almost felt like a blessing. Of course, it was far from it, she was merely dramatising everything again (at least she was self aware). It just- it meant a lot to her. 

“I- thank you, Mrs Lopez.” Perhaps she knew that, because she squeezed her shoulder the same way she’d seen her do to Santana a few times. 

“I told you, it’s Maribel.” 

Once everything was put away nicely, they headed into the living area where Santana and her father were arguing over something on the tv, only halting when they saw them. 

“Why don’t you girls go continue with your project whilst your father works on the dessert.” 

The only way to describe the atmosphere in Santana’s bedroom was tense.

It wasn’t necessarily a sexual tension. Although, one might’ve thought that would be the case after a rather heated make out session. No, it was more, awkward, for a lack of a better word. 

Feeling herself lost for words, she picked up Much Ado About Nothing, prompting Santana to follow suit, and they began a little more on track than earlier in the day. It seemed they both were desperate to focus. 

She’d mostly memorised her lines as Beatrice, but she kept the book close to have something to look at that wasn’t Santana, and to remind herself when they jumbled up with thoughts and metaphors of her own. 

Mostly, they were focused on the feel of Santana’s lips. The way her hand gripped at her hip, fingers drawing patterns against the fabric of her sweater. Her hair, soft, like silk against the pads of her fingertips. 

“I’m in love with you.” The confession was blurted out amidst their lines, out of place and painfully obvious. She wasn’t sure whether it was intentional or a subconscious utterance in the voice of Beatrice. 

“That’s...not the line,” Santana reminded, a little uneasily as her eyes flicked from the words on her page to the girl before her. 

Palms feeling clammy, she opened and closed the play, before dropping it to her side. It was too late now to backtrack. They’d read through it too many times for it to be a simple mistake. That wasn’t even how a love confession happened in Shakespearean dialogue. More like, intertwined with exaggerated imagery - much like Rachel’s thoughts - or worded in an elegant, structured way. 

“No. I’m in love with you, Santana.” She was nothing if not direct when it came down to it, and the way Santana was struggling between confusion and shock was almost endearing. 

“Rachel,  what the fuck.” Making her way to her bed, sitting unsteadily, she rubbed at her temples. When Rachel made no move to take back her statement, to laugh or smile, remaining deadly serious, Santana looked about ready to flee the room. “Rachel, you’re not in love with me. You hardly  know me.”

“I think I know the extent of my own feelings,” She said, a little haughtily, crossing her arms in defence. 

“You’re in love with the idea of me, or something.” 

The lack of disgust or outrage was a relief, somewhat. She thought if she’d revealed this a few weeks ago Santana would’ve reacted a whole lot differently, so there was that. 

Taking a step closer, she felt a stab of pain when the Latina held up her hand, an invisible dagger right through the heart. “No, Santana I- I am-“

“Look,” Santana turned to her then, voice grave, hands clasped at her knees, “Love isn’t just about attraction or, I don’t know, whatever you’re feeling. It’s not about knowing their favourite subject or what songs they like to sing. Reciting facts about a person doesn’t mean you know them.”

Grappling with a coherent answer that would display the true depths of her feelings, she found herself stuttering, “I- That’s not-“ 

“Love is about forming a connection with somebody. About allowing somebody to see you as you are in your simplest form. Just you and your thoughts and who you are. Not what your coffee order is. Yeah, you learn that stuff over time, but I could learn that about anybody. Love is deeper than that. It’s about truly knowing somebody and accepting them as they are. That doesn’t mean you have to like everything about them. You just see this person, their true, raw self and you form an understanding. The rest is just details.”

“Wow, I love you,” Rachel uttered, breathless and moon eyed at Santana’s emotional depth, the passion in her voice. Almost forgetting the fact she’d laid her heart on the table and Santana was telling her whatever she was feeling wasn’t there. A farce or a false idea. 

The girl floundered, raising her hands in exasperation, “No you don’t!” 

Rachel realised that Santana had to have felt those things for somebody to know what it was like. That deeply, that  _ lovingly _ . Nobody could fabricate such raw and honest emotion.

“Who do you feel all those things for?” She knew the answer, she’d known the answer for a long time. She wondered if that’s what would be the barrier between a friendship between them, and something more. All these feelings Santana harboured - for somebody else. 

Suddenly more interested in her carpeted floor, she mumbled, “I uh- that’s none of your business.” 

“Santana, you don’t have to hide from me. I-“ 

“If you say you love me again, Berry, I swear to God I will go all Lima Heights on your ass.” That was effective in quietening her - despite the fact Rachel knew she wasn’t actually from Lima Heights Adjacent, it was the principle. When Santana said that she was usually quite serious.

“You probably just think I’m super hot, which, I don’t blame you,” She shrugged, patting the bed beside her in an almost comforting gesture, the arrogance lost in Rachel’s turmoil. Rachel hesitantly took the seat, thumbs pressing into her palms. “And you’ve been hung up on Finn for so long you’re putting your efforts somewhere else.” 

It made sense. From an outsiders perspective, not experiencing Rachel’s endless poetic thoughts and feelings. But...she knew what she was feeling. It wasn’t about Finn, or his absence, it was a stand alone admiration. 

“Also, I’m super unattainable so it’s a way for you to invest something in somebody you know won’t be hurt by your efforts.” 

Making to prostest, she felt her defences rising again. Santana couldn’t dictate what she was or was not feeling. “I-“

“It’s like that time you had that creepy crush on Mr Schue.” 

She didn’t appreciate that particular reminder, and was going to express how different those situations were, “But-“ before she was interrupted _again_ . 

“Rachel, tell me one thing you know about me that isn’t some shallow ass thing like my favourite colour.” The pointed stare only helped in making her even more frustrated. Why did she have to... _ feel things _ , for such a complicated person? Couldn’t she just backtrack and not walk in that particularly direction at that particular time, continuing high school oblivious to any type of romantic inclinations towards the girl. 

“You...you’re smart? You take AP classes,” She offered up, a weak argument. It’s just- everything was jumbled up and she couldn’t think properly. 

With a sympathetic shake of her head, Santana laid a hand on Rachel’s arm. “You’re used to me being an utter bitch. So now that I’m showing you some kindness, you’re latching onto that and deluding yourself.” 

The more she spoke, the more sense it was making. It would be easier to just be rejected, to not have all of these complicated ideas thrown at her for why she might be feeling a certain way. To be told you’re basically fooling yourself into loving somebody? She was sure she was at the precipice of an identity crisis. 

“Wait, how long has this been...like a thing?” Santana questioned, suddenly retracting her hand. “Is that why you asked me to do that duet, and sang that Amy Whinehouse song?” 

“Well, yes,” She nodded, chewing at her thumbnail.

“Hold up, is that why we’re partners? Did you set all of this up?” Her tone was all accusation as she stood up, putting some distance between them like she was suddenly afraid of getting too close.

“Partly,” Before she could interject, Rachel rushed to speak, “But it was just to spend more time with you outside of a school environment! Also, I would’ve been with Jacob, and I couldn’t possibly be in a room alone with him, so we’d be forced to practise in the allocated two lesson slots we’re given, which would’ve meant we’d be awful! He would’ve definitely tried to kiss me, too.” 

“I guess that makes sense,” Still sounding slightly dubious, Santana didn’t make an effort to move any closer, or to lower her defences, “It’s still a bit creepy.”

Of course she would interpret this as some sort of stalker behaviour.

“Anyway, how long? That Amy whinehouse song was like a month ago.”

“Not long before that. When you stopped me from falling over in the hallway,” Rachel felt a little sheepish as she said it. Almost embarrassed. She’d been taught to never feel shame for her emotions, but Santana’s incredulousness and insistence in denying Rachel’s declaration made it rather hard not to. 

“You’re telling me, you realised you loved me when I stopped you from falling over?”

“Yes?” 

“Rachel, that’s like, hero syndrome or hero worship something.” 

Turning thoughtful, she thought over the implications of romantic feelings just because of a heroic save. “I never considered that.” 

Of course, it only aided in getting her to notice Santana. It was a little abrupt the way the feelings had hit her, but that didn’t really mean it was hero worship. The identity crisis was only getting closer.

“Although, it was only a fall into the lockers. I’m sure that’d only effect somebody who had their life saved,” She didn’t know who she was trying to convince any more. Santana had a way of making her question everything. 

“You’re like the most dramatic person ever. It probably felt like I’d saved your life.” 

Feeling a little downtrodden by the constant questioning and interrupting and telling her what she should feel, Rachel felt herself resigning. Making herself smaller, sighing. “Who cares where it started, Santana?” 

That was ignored in favour of the girl suddenly coming to a realisation, slight panic taking over her features. “And we just kissed! And you have all these feelings attached. Why did you kiss me?” 

“You offered!” Rachel protested, feeling like she was being blamed for preying on the girl or something. No, that was certainly not the case, and she wouldn’t stand for any type of accusation that it was. 

Looking a little indignant, petulant almost, with arms crossed, “Yeah...well, you should’ve said no,” Santana huffed as she looked at the ground. 

“It’s not like you have many options,” She turned her head to the side, arms crossed much in the same way as Santana. 

“Really? I have-“

“ _Real_ options,” She interjected, feeling a little smug that she was the one cutting in.

Santana blanched quite visibly, arms falling at her sides as her eyebrows furrowed. “What does that even mean?” 

“Options you’d actually like,” She shrugged, nonchalant, mirroring Santana’s usual response to things.

“I don’t know what you’re hinting at, Berry, but I don’t like the sound of it.” There was a slight threat to it, the way she pointed her finger and lowered her voice, reminding Rachel of how messed up this whole situation was. Almost a reality check. 

Still, she persisted in trying to force herself into Santana’s emotion bubble. “You know what I’m talking about and you know I’m not going to judge you for it. It would be entirely hypocritical. Considering. Though, our circumstances are different, considering I’m interested in both m-“

“Don’t finish that sentence.” The threat was clear now, but behind that anger there was a vulnerability. She was  _scared_ , Rachel realised. Afraid of voicing it out loud or hearing somebody else voice it aloud. Perhaps even in her own thoughts. 

Rachel couldn’t possibly imagine filtering her thoughts - what a tragedy. Noticing how serious this was to Santana, she shut her mouth. 

The silence that preceded was nerve wracking.Santana’s mind seemed to be moving a mile a minute as she began pacing slightly, back and forth in front of Rachel as the latter took a careful seat on the edge of the bed; barely staying up with the little amount of space she gave herself. 

“You know, I’d totally have more options if we didn’t live in this backwards town,” Santana eventually said, voice softer than before, only meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second before looking back down at her feet. 

“Oh, I know,” Rachel nodded, quite abruptly. 

Another awkward silence. She felt herself getting a little fidgety, gripping at Santana’s polyester sheets as the girl remained silent, inner turmoil expressed in her furrowed brow.

She might’ve tried to ease the situation, or perhaps make it worse, but Mrs Lopez broke through the silence with a shout about dessert.

It was even more awkward than the meal.

Rachel was mostly bogged down by thoughts about why Santana might’ve made out with her if she valued their potential for a friendship. She didn’t really do casual, the girl should’ve known that, but here they were. 

More importantly, she found herself questioning the true extent of her feelings. Santana was right- of course she was right. It was ridiculous.  _She_ was ridiculous. 

Perhaps she was also right in assuming that Rachel had over exaggerated her emotions to fill some sort of space where Finn might’ve been. No - the only certainty was the lack of involvement from Finn. 

But...maybe, it all revolved around attraction. Mere attraction. 

It wasn’t wrong for a teenage girl to have an attraction to somebody, especially somebody like Santana Lopez. And perhaps that’s where it’d started, over complicated by Rachel’s imaginative mind. 

But, now, it felt a little more. Maybe not love. But there was something there, and Rachel would be damned if she let go of the chance for something with the girl, now that she’d gotten a glimpse into who she was behind her bitchy cheerleader persona. 

After all, Rachel Berry always got what she wanted. 

Perhaps Santana’s parents noticed the shift, because they didn’t mess around with too much small talk and everybody finished off their plates rather quickly. 

She’d never rushed to say goodbye to anybody so quickly - the excuse of her fathers wanting her home.

Her breath materialised as thin wisps of white as she stood just outside Santana’s door, pulling her coat tighter as she shivered in her spot. 

Santana was leaning against the doorway, warming her arms at the chill. “Do you want...a scarf or something?”

“No, that’s okay.” 

Before she could turn to leave, Santana was shifting in her spot, face screwing up in thought. “Rachel, you’re actually kind of cool, okay? And, don’t tell anyone I said this, but it actually started to feel like we were becoming friends.” 

A sudden feeling of guilt washed over her, the voice of Mrs Lopez revealing that she was one of Santana’s only friends lately (perhaps the only person she could really talk with) at the forefront of her mind. And she’d gone and messed things up by being dramatic. 

“I kinda wanna keep that up.” 

“Yeah, yes, of course.” Nodding violently, she bit at her bottom lip, “I’m sorry I had to go and complicate things.”

“No, it’s okay. We’ll...work through it, yeah?” Rachel gave a soft nod, returning Santana’s awkward smile. “Maybe if I start being a full on bitch to you again you’ll go off me,” She joked, cocking her head to the side. 

“I think that should be our last resort.” Rachel considered leaving again, pivoting on her heels, but a question nagged at the back of her mind, and she turned back with a deep breath. “Can I just ask one thing?” 

A silent nod was all she received. 

“Why did you kiss me?” There was a beat, Santana most likely making assumptions about the motive of asking such a thing. She didn’t want to sound desperate, or expectant. Or delusional. “I know you don’t have feelings for me. I’m not pushing for that. I, just, it’s been bugging me.”

Another pause, Santana’s arms crossing without much thought. “I think you’re kind of hot, okay? Yeah, you’re short and you have a big nose, but you’re still kinda hot.” She shrugged, nonchalant. Perhaps overplayed nonchalance, exaggerated. 

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

“I’d take flattered.” 

A lot of things went through her mind. Her initial reaction was to swoon over the proved information that Santana found her attractive. Another part felt disappointed. A rational part picked out on the backhanded nature of the statement. “So, you just make out with people you find hot?” 

“I’m a sexual being, what can I say?” She winked, it’s impact lessened by everything that’d happened. It almost felt stale. “You should try it sometime.” 

There wasn’t much she could do or say but head towards her car, the cold almost unbearable now. 

“You’re a pretty good kisser, Rachel,” Santana called after her as she opened the door. 

“Yeah?” Turning over her shoulder, she recognised a playful smile on Santana’s features, any expression in her eyes that might give away something deeper not quite made out from the distance. “So are you.”

Sliding into her car without another glance back in the fear she’d do something stupid like walk back up and kiss her, she left the Lopez residence feeling not entirely warmed, but not disappointed either. 

Perhaps there was something there for Rachel to latch onto, no matter how delusional Santana might’ve thought she was. Sometimes what others thought was  delusion was actually reality, just hard to see from a sceptical point of view. 

After all, love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!! kind of a lot happened, but I didn’t want to split it up.


	4. Act II, Scene I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first it felt like some sort of torture method, suddenly having Rachel Berry hanging around her ass and yapping in her ear about Shakespeare. She was potentially the most annoying person in existence. And that was a universal opinion - not just Santana’s bitchiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya lovelies, hope you guys are doing great! I appreciate all your comments :))
> 
> Uh, this part has a lot more swearing? A given for Santana’s internal monologue really. I hope you like the switch in perspective.

  
**Act II: With Every Great Fantasy Plot There’s One Tethered To Reality**

**-**

Scratching at the bark of a tree with the pocket knife she kept in her boot, she grunted with the effort of chipping away the last chunk of wood. Standing back to appraise her masterpiece, she heard Brittany clapping down below, the thump of her sneakers against the grass as she jumped up and down. 

“Draw a duck!” She requested next, but Santana’s arm was weak from the previous effort of carving out a heart, B + S in the centre of it. 

“Tomorrow, maybe.” She sat down against the tree trunk, legs dangling below her, before carefully manoeuvring herself until she was hanging down by her hands; feet almost touching the ground. Landing with a thud, she accepted Brittany’s grateful hug, arms tightly squeezed around her neck.

They were almost similar in height then. Until Brittany’s growth spurt right before high school. She’d always been a little taller, but it became more prominent the older they got. It was super annoying for Santana, who saw it as some sort of maturity thing. And tall girls were models, not girls with short legs.

She had a lot of insecurities in her early teen years - some she still discreetly held onto, and fooled herself into thinking she didn’t. First it was her Puerto Rican heritage. Getting called racial slurs was a common occurrence until she eventually climbed the social ladder and became somebody to be feared. It was still there, the slight prejudice - she lived in backwards ass Lima, Ohio for fucksake, but eventually it was the sort of talk that went on  _ behind _ her back. Not to her face. 

Then it was her weight, fuelled by the pressure of the Cheerios and Sue Sylvester. Eating disorders became encouraged. After she’d lost the weight, she’d been told by enough boys that she had a skinny ass and scrawny legs that it was the reverse. She felt too thin. 

Her natural hair became a problem, the size of her tits, the mole beneath her lip she got surgically removed. She compensated by faking it up - fake hair, fake boobs, fake confidence. 

Some part of her resented both Brittany and Quinn. White, blonde girls, nice legs, nice assess - the sort of shit people care about. Whenever she saw pictures of the three of them together she’d compare anything and everything about them. 

It felt like some sort of relief when Quinn got knocked up. It was fucked up, the way she’d acted when her friend was vulnerable, but her vulnerability was now Santana’s strength, and she became the new head bitch, the new person of focus. She was surprised Brittany didn’t take the spot, but people were calling her easy and ditsy, and Santana was kind of hard to get (even if she did sprout shit about never saying no) with an almost 4.0GPA, so. 

What was even more fucked up was all the feelings that got dragged in. The sex. 

Santana traced over the engraving with her pinky, head resting heavily against the bark. It had faded slightly with the years worth of rain and wear, but it was still there. 

Staring at it now, she tried to picture herself, halfway through middle school with Brittany and herself joined at the hip. Imagine what she might’ve been feeling. She didn’t know when it’d gotten so complicated. When feelings and other people had jumbled up what, before, was so  _ right_. 

Now she couldn’t even look at the dancer without feeling a loss. Like she’d never get her best friend back, never get the person she’d grown to love so fiercely, back at her side. Everything so  _ wrong_. 

Perhaps she deserved it. That’s the only comfort she found, surprisingly. That this was the worlds karma, for hurting Brittany in her efforts to maintain a reputation that wouldn’t even matter in two years time. For clawing her way to the top and treading on the people at the bottom to stay there. It was too painful to think that this was partly Brittany’s doing - throwing whatever they had away for some boy in a wheelchair. 

The reality of the situation was; she’d pushed Brittany away and couldn’t stand the fact it’d worked.

“Mija!” Her mothers voice, a soft shout from the kitchen window, had her almost losing balance. She’d only fallen from the tree once when she was ten and had gotten a sprained wrist out of it. “Come help your father pack up some dessert for Rachel.” 

_ Rachel._ Now that had been an interesting development.

At first it felt like some sort of torture method, suddenly having Rachel Berry hanging around her ass and yapping in her ear about Shakespeare. She was potentially the most annoying person in existence. And that was a universal opinion - not just Santana’s bitchiness. 

She’d have clawed her own eyes out at the mere mention of them spending any time together in a proximity closer than 10 feet apart pre glee club, and the thought of having dinner with her up until the actual dinner made bile rise to the back of her throat. Well, okay, maybe she didn’t entirely resent the idea when her mom had brought it up. Rachel had kind of grown on her, and not like a rash, but sort of like an annoying little kid, just with extensive vocabulary, so the sort that went to college after middle school. She was actually a lot more bearable than Santana had thought, fighting for glee club solos and wanting to make herself some sort of icon aside. Damn that girl was desperate for attention sometimes. Perhaps that’s why she was sniffing around Santana so much lately, because she was the only one who didn’t really pay attention to her. Yeah, mostly the attention was the bad kind - Quinn having some sort of weird, obsessive resentment towards her, and rest of the glee club a mix between envy, slight awe and annoyance - but attention was attention.

Santana knew what it was like to want it, she’d craved it for most of middle school and her freshman year. Now she mostly wanted to fade into the background a little with the rumours spreading around. Yeah, she still valued her reputation and the popularity that came with it; but she’d slackened the reins a little, so to speak. 

Having Rachel outright tell her the reason she’d been so attentive lately was because she was  _ in love with her _ \- now that was a surprise she hadn’t seen coming. 

So, yeah, they’d made out. But that didn’t really mean anything. It was kind of dumb, now she thought of it, to kiss one of the only people who’d acted in any way friendly to her recently. It’s just- her musical knowledge was kind of a total turn on, and she was pretty hot when you looked past the animal sweaters. Santana had known both of those things, but only when they’d talked about things that actually mattered to her did she realise that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get up on that (Puck was right all along). She wasn’t as shallow as everyone made her out to be. And, really, the only girl she’d made out with was Brittany, so, maybe Rachel was right when she said she didn’t have many options. (Even if she did have options, Rachel was still kinda hot for a devout Jew so it was probably bound to happen at some point, and maybe reggae did impact her libido a little bit for unknown reasons). 

But, it was just that. Attraction. Not...love. Yeah, she’d known Rachel was kind of a drama queen and a little bit over the top, but to convince yourself you’re in love with somebody?

That was kinda crazy. Loca, if you will.

What was also crazy was the fact she was cutting three pieces of dessert for Rachel and her gay dads who she hadn’t even met. She blamed her mom for being so fucking polite sometimes. 

Having to walk into McKinley the next day knowing she had a container rattling around in her bag with dessert for  _ Rachel Berry _ and her  _ gay dads _ gave her a fucking headache. Quinn would have a field trip with this one if she found out. Puck too. She could see him milking the shit out of this for the rest of her life if he found out. Just, fucking, wanky.

“She’s a lovely girl, Santana.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” She shrugged, closing the lid on the tub and pushing it away as if it burned her fingertips.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be a little nicer, you know. She’s actually trying to be your friend.” Her mom bumped her hip with her own as she passed by, shaking her head in disapproval. 

“I am nicer. I don’t call her a hobbit anymore.” 

“ _Santana Lopez_ , that’s exactly what your grandmother called you up until middle school. You cried about wanting to be taller almost every night for your first week until I told her to stop,” Maribel reminded, stern. “You’ve got to be careful with your words.” 

Rolling her eyes, she tried not to feel any type of guilt (there was some nagging at the back of her mind, but Berry was next level short, could anyone really blame her?).

“I’m serious.” 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be considerate or whatever.” 

•••

The annoying thing was, the container  _was_ rattling around like a fucking tool box the next morning. She didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like she had some prancey gait like Lady Hummel, or a weird little hobbit shuffle like Rachel - which, she probably didn’t have but Santana’s narrative was set in stone. It was a reminder of the fact she’d totally joined loserville, officially.

Opening her locker with a roll of her eyes as she heard the  _ thunk _ of cake at her jostled movement, she took a few seconds to process what she was seeing. 

A pale yellow piece of paper was tacked to one of her folders, hanging limply in a perfect half crease. She took out the pin, placing it carefully at the bottom of her locker, and smoothed out the paper. 

_ Santana,_

_ I’m sorry if I freaked you out. I like to think we’ve formed somewhat of a friendship these past few weeks and I don’t want to jeapodrise that. I’m trying to come to my senses, or whatever you told me to do, but here’s a record I think you’ll like in the meantime. Totally your style. And some poetry that seems like it could fit on your bookshelf. Sorry - R xx _

It was signed with a gold star, sticking out beneath her writing (which- she’d expected it to be neater for somebody as meticulous as Rachel, but).

Tracing over the little flowers sketched at the top, she placed the letter next to the pin, looking either side of her before moving on to the gifts. A poetry book with a blue cover, a beige vinyl. Taking out the vinyl first, she smiled when she realised it was Arctic Monkeys. She wondered if it came from Rachel’s own collection or she was just that efficient at buying gifts last minute. 

She held it close to her chest for a second, warily eyeing the hallway just in case the Hobbit was hiding behind a corner, watching her like a hawk, before carefully slipping it back in its place. 

Santana took the poetry book with her to homeroom, discreetly flicking through it at the back of the class as the teacher droned on about attendance or something. She realised most of the poems were linked to the colour of blue, whether it was love or loss, and she couldn’t help but think of Brittany for some stupid reason. 

It was Quinn’s, “Since when do you read?”, over her shoulder that had her snapping the book shut, placing it faced down beneath her bag. 

“Not all of us need to get pregnant to realise we need to educate ourselves.” She drawled, jaw tightening as Quinn just rolled her eyes. 

They were friends once, even if there was gentle backstabbing and an undertone of resentment. They’d never been close like her and Brittany, but there was a quiet level of friendship that had once been comforting. Now they mostly ignored each other apart from the occasional snide remark. Quinn moved away eventually, sitting on the opposite side of the classroom, and Santana got back to looking through the poems. When she came across a little golden star next to a poem about Billie Holiday and the blues, she traced her finger over each point. 

She didn’t even think to worry over how Rachel had gotten her locker combination until later when she actually saw her lurking about nearby, trying to look like she wasn’t waiting.

When their eyes met, she beckoned her over. “How did you get my locker combination, should I be worried? Is this turning into some sort of stalker situation? It starts with the locker, then it’s my house, and before I know it you’re taking DNA samples from the coffee cups I throw in the trash and making a clone of me to use as a sex toy or something.” 

“I thought I was the dramatic one,” Rachel said with a bemused grin, a slight nervous energy about her. Santana could tell by the way she gripped her sleeves and shuffled from foot to foot every so often. She wouldn’t say she was good at reading people because usually she didn’t give enough of a shit to pay attention, but when she did her critical eye came into play and she formed an idea of what the other person might be thinking about. Usually it was about fucking her, slapping her or storming off.

She could tell just from Rachel’s body language that she was thinking of the kiss (without even needing to see her eyes on her lips) and especially the shit show of a love confession by the way she was a literal ball of anguish. 

She’d toned it down at Santana’s quip, so maybe it wouldn’t be long before they could, I don’t know, be normal again, whatever that was (they didn’t even have enough time to figure that out). It wasn’t like Rachel was genuinely in love with her. At least - Santana was pretty certain she wasn’t.

“So, where did you find the poet? I flicked through some of it earlier and it looks good.” 

“I saw a recommendation online and searched up some of her work. It kind of resonated with me, so, I wondered if it’d resonate with you,” Shrugging, she leant forwards slightly and lowered her voice, “Like I said, or rather wrote, it’s an apology for springing that...confession, on you, last night. I’m not trying to gain your affections from it, if that’s what you were worried about.” 

Santana tried to quell the amusement to avoid humiliating her or something, instead taking a more sincere approach (shit, her mom must be getting into her head). “No, I wasn’t worried.” It was honest, at least, because Santana wasn’t a total dick. She knew what unreciprocated feelings felt like and she didn’t see Rachel as some predator (at least, not since freshman year, but that was more thinking she could sink her teeth into her ankles and feast on her flesh - imagination had no limits when bullying was involved). 

“I kind of added a little star next to some of my favourites. I hope you don’t mind,” Rachel looked a little sheepish, leaning into the lockers. Santana thought she was quite pretty when she smiled, and she was probably thinking with her vag again but dammit, how could’ve they compared her to a man when she was so soft? Well, calling her Rupaul was actually a compliment she realised, now that she’d watched drag race. 

“I’ll look into them tonight. If I don’t have anything better to do, of course,” She smirked, hoping Rachel caught the joke, and luckily she wasn’t a complete imbecile because she rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

So, she didn’t hate Rachel. Neither did she really dislike her. It was more of a hesitant like, not just tolerance but bordering on friendship. It was entirely fucking weird but there were worse people to befriend, she thought. 

The bell ringing alerted them of next period, and Rachel looked like she was about to traipse off before Santana remembered the damn dessert, “Oh, Rachel, before you go.” Her mom would kick her ass if she didn’t hand it over, and luckily everyone was too busy rushing off to class to really bother looking their way as she unzipped her bag and offered up the container to a curious Rachel. “For you and your dads.” 

“Oh.” She clutched it close to her chest, all surprised looking. 

“Anyway, catch you in glee club or whatever.” Santana hiked her bag onto her shoulder, meandering off down the hallway, certainly not feeling the urge to glance back. 

It was fucking ridiculous. Why did she have to be so...you know...g word? Not that she was  _ that _ g word. Just a bit, maybe. Internal panics were quite frequent as of late. Maybe she needed to hook up with Puck or something. Not that he would be down for it, now he was hanging around that Zizes chick like some lamo. Fuck, maybe she’d totally lost her game.

(Well- there was Rachel, but that was different. She didn’t quite know how it was different but it was. Maybe because the girl seemed to like her for her brain or some shit, whatever that meant. Then Santana remembered she’d started crushing on her when she stopped her from falling into a locker. Maybe it wasn’t so different. 

It shouldn’t have made her stomach tighten uncomfortably to think she was just like all the jocks and only interested in her for her looks). 

As if the fucking devil himself was trying to torture her, Quinn Fabray materialised at her side again - once in a day was already too damn much - a curious, but mildly disgusted glint in her eye. “What’re you doing at  _her_ locker,” She asked, part accusation, part distaste. 

“Frankly, Tubbers, that’s none of your business,” Santana bit back, not appreciating her sudden piqued interest. The bitch got her demoted to the bottom of the pyramid running her mouth to Sue (Santana hadn’t done the same when it came to her little devil spawn). Why the fuck she thought they were on speaking terms again was beyond her.

“Since when did you start hanging around Rachel like a weird theatre kid who got a whiff of her Broadway knowledge?” Santana grimaced at the comparison, wondering if she did come off as some nerd. A desperate nerd at that. But, it wasn’t like she really cared anymore. It was lame enough being in the glee club, she doubted anyone would break their necks craning to see whatever she had to say to Rachel - the glee captain. 

“Since when did you call her Rachel?” She said, pushing past a group of freshman. One of them went to mouth off but stopped before they saw who it was.  _ Ah_, the power she possessed. Yeah, nobody cared. She was Santana fucking Lopez. Just because Quinn took a fall down the social ladder for getting knocked up, that didn’t mean Santana would anytime soon. “Why do you care? Jealous?”

Quinn scoffed, shaking her head and that stupid little pony on it. A part of her wondered why she did care. Maybe it was her weird little obsession with making sure Rachel never got any happiness. Another part couldn’t care less.

“Whatever, Fabray. Get your nose out of my business, yeah?” She didn’t give her chance to respond, branching off into her calculus class, shouldering her way to the back of the room.

Jeez, that girl needed to learn when her presence was wanted. She’d take a Barbara Streisand movie marathon with Rachel (or whatever sort of acting she did) over sitting in a room alone with Quinn nowadays. She had a stick so far up her ass Santana could see it when she spoke. She’d always been uptight, with the celibacy club and shit, but lately she’d just been a downright bitch. And not the Santana kind of bitch. Just, fucking annoying. 

The only thing that managed to wipe the scowl off her face was the message notification asking her to dinner as a thank you, under the recently changed contact name: Rachel. (Before it’d been something like Hobbit or Gnome - Santana didn’t really keep track of that kind of thing it just came out when it did). 

Yeah, maybe Rachel was her friend. So what? Maybe her legs were kinda hot and her lips were kinda kissable? It didn’t mean Santana had a crush or anything. She just happened to find the weirdo attractive. Whatever.

Dinner was totally on and the Berry’s would freaking love her. She was hot shit. (For a passing moment she wondered why she valued their opinion at all).  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you thought of the change <33


	5. Act II, Scene II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sincerity in her voice had Santana’s chest squeezing painfully. It felt like her ribs were crushing in against her lungs and forcing the air out. It was fucked up how she still felt herself wanting to just...accept everything being handed to her, no matter how small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, this is a few days later than my usual schedule. there’s potentially only one more chapter left, depending on whether or not I add too much material. and if that’s the case, there’ll be two left. but, I’d wager on one. I hope you enjoy this one :)

** - **

“Are you serious right now?” Foot tapping against the floor, arms crossed tightly over her chest, the girl looked about two seconds away from scratching her eyeballs out. Or popping a breast implant with her creepy talons. 

“ _Extremely _ serious.” 

“You know what, find another partner.” 

Rachel was already halfway towards the door before Santana started cackling. Brittany had said it sounded like witches laughter, probably because she only laughed like this when she’d hoped to piss people off with her villainous schemes. 

“This isn’t funny!” Rachel whirled around to face her, reaching a new height of anger. She looked on the precipice of a diva storm out (she was halfway there, really, before Santana had interrupted her by breaking the dramatic tension and laughing). It only made her laugh harder. God that girl was easy to rile up. 

“It so is,” She wheezed, holding her stomach. 

“I do not find defacing my copy of Much Ado About Nothing  _ humorous._” Rachel was clutching said play in her hand, opened to a page with a dick drawn right over the lines. That never grew old.

“Oh my god, chill out. It’s pencil,” She said, breathless from only just gaining composure (well, she was still trying to hold in a laugh). 

“I don’t have an eraser,” She frowned at the book, turning it away as if it burned her virgin eyes or something ridiculous like that. 

“Give it here.” Santana held her hand out, watching as Rachel remained in her place, holding the book close to her chest with an untrusting, reluctant look. “I want to erase it dumbass.” Holding up the eraser dramatically, she tried not to laugh again as Rachel huffed on the spot, but walked the short distance to her desk anyway. 

She watched her erase it carefully, Santana’s fingers pressing either side of the drawing so she didn’t crease the page. Making sure it was gone completely, she held it under the light and cocked her head to the side, winking playfully when she handed it back. 

“Your dads aren’t going to poison my food, are they?” 

The girl had relaxed a little, watching Santana with something in her eye, before shrugging. “Depends what you class as poison. They’ll be using vegan cheese.” 

Laughing (this time with Rachel rather than  _at_ her - even if she wasn’t actually laughing in that moment, more of a hesitant smile, held mostly back by her attempts at remaining angry) she grimaced, pretending to gag. Rachel took her seat beside Santana, all prim, crossing her hands atop her book and smiling coyly. “You know...you poke your tongue out when you’re focused.” 

Santana might’ve muttered a  _ wanky _ if she wasn’t reeling from the accusation. “I do not.” 

“You just did.” 

That bitch just wanted to get her ass beat. Maybe it was a kink of hers or something. “Take that back or else I’ll go-“

“All Lima Heights on my ass?” Santana shut her mouth abruptly, narrowing her eyes as Rachel just smirked with a shrug. “You’re getting predictable.” 

That bitch really wanted to play with fire today? Oh, it was on. “You’re just stalking me.” 

That garnered a scandalised gasp, a dainty hand reaching up to rest against her chest (there really wasn’t anyone more dramatic than Rachel Berry). “I certainly am not!” 

“You totes are.” 

“Don’t spin this around on me because you stick your tongue out like a child when erasing stuff!”

“I’m not a child,” She ground out, probably sounding kind of petulant. Yeah, she didn’t have the sort of fear to wield around Berry now that she’d given her dessert to share with her gay dads. 

“You certainly sound like a child right now,” Rachel cocked an eyebrow (she looked kinda hot like that, and here Santana was thinking with her vag again, good god girl get a grip). 

“If I’m a child then you’re a pedophile,” She smirked, probably crossing a line by bringing it up but...it was valid. She basically walked into that one. 

Rachel’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “Excuse me?”

“You totally wants all up on this. Perv.” 

“Now that’s just silly.” She crossed her arms and turned away, flicking her hair over her shoulder. It whipped against Santana’s cheek, brushing her lips before she recoiled backwards, spluttering. She didn’t know what kind of weird chemicals she lathered that crap in, Santana wasn’t about to eat half hair half science project for breakfast. 

“Dude, be careful with the hair flicking, I almost choked on that shit.” Maybe spending too much time around guys trying to delay the inevitable (fucking) had impacted her. Sam accidentally called her dude all the time when they ended up playing COD. 

“Dude?” Rachel looked over her shoulder with eyebrows raised, a little affronted. Fragile femininity or what, right? 

“Whatever. Would you rather I call you Miss Gnome?” 

That garnered another huff and a flick of the hair. “ _Jeez_. I’m just kidding.” The silence that followed had her rolling her eyes. Fucking drama queen. “Come on, we’ve gotta perform in front of the class this week, so, stop sulking Berry.” 

“You’re the one wasting time by drawing silly things and calling me a gnome,” She said quietly, refusing eye contact. 

“What if you’re the Gnomeo to my Juliet?” Santana regretted saying it before it even passed her lips. Something must be in the water or something. She sounded like a fucking pansy. 

“I resent being placed in a male role.” 

“Yeah but if I called you Juliet that would ruin the gnome part,” She shrugged, nudging Rachel’s shoulder. “And gender roles in relationships are a load of ass. We’ll both be Juliet.” 

There was a slight smile, barely there and quickly covered with a blank look, but she’d totes just alleviated the situation. Whatever the situation was (Rachel was kinda sensitive). 

“So, Beatrice, you gonna read your line?” 

“Where were we again?” 

So maybe she totally knew how to get back on Rachel’s good side now. It didn’t mean they were bosom buddies or anything. 

•••

  
Ever since Quinn had taken up the role of head cheerleader again she’d been a huge thorn in Santana’s (silicone) side-boob. So what if she got a boob job? It wasn’t like she couldn’t be thrown as high because it added like a pound (she lost it before the surgery by going on some weird no carb diet anyway) and Sue didn’t give that Monica chick crap for her swollen foot that had to have added at least five pounds. It looked gnarly as shit as well, at least Santana’s boobs were even. And Quinn totally had a nose job when she was like five years old, so, what the fuck?

That was a double standard if she’d ever seen one. Quinn and Sue probably had some weird blonde bond. And Q totally seemed like the type to get a dyke haircut at 70, or whatever age Sylvester was. 

It was a fucking joke. And now she was fraternising with Rachel Berry, who, for some reason, was Quinn’s mortal enemy. Yeah, she was kinda annoying, so Santana got  _ that_, but this was like a whole new level of extreme. It probably started with Doughboy. If someone with a snozz like Rachel’s could get Finn, why should’ve Quinn even bothered getting a nose job? 

It didn’t make sense why she was suddenly trying to latch onto Santana like she hadn’t totally thrown her under the bus. Yeah, it’d been a while, but that didn’t change the fact she left practice with her shoulders aching from carrying the rest of the team. “What’s your damage Quinn?” She’d hushed under her breath during a lunchtime glee meeting, right after the girl had swooped in and taken the seat next to her before Rachel could even think about sitting there. 

“You’re going to completely ruin your rep.” Again, with the reputation bullshit. 

“Why the fuck do you even care? You’re the one who got me demoted.” Feeling her blood boil at the hypocrisy, Santana just about refrained from bitch slapping the shit out of her. 

“Yes, for something people fawned over. Getting Rachel’s stink on the Cheerios is threatening the hierarchy.” Now she just sounded delusional. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. 

“Oh my fucking God, what is it with this club and drama queens? If I’d have known everyone was gonna be a sensitive sack of melodrama, I wouldn’t have bothered joining,” She said, loudly, drawing the attention of about everyone in the room. “What?” 

They quickly glanced away, clearly not wanting to get involved in whatever was going on, all but Rachel who was watching them curiously.“Just- get your plastic nose out of my business.”

“Fine, but if you catch yourself getting slushied, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

Santana didn’t even know why she was defensive. Maybe Quinn just had a habit of getting under her skin in all the worst ways. She knew what went on in Santana’s head because she’d lived through it herself. 

It didn’t help that both Brittany’s and Rachel’s eyes were on her now. She didn’t look at either of them, just stared ahead and waited for something to focus on, like Schue’s awful vests or the 25,000Hz pitch from Hummel whenever he sang a song meant for a woman. 

They got let out fifteen minutes later after going over Regionals rules or whatever it was Schue was blabbing on about. Santana didn’t really bother listening, it would probably be repeated in their actual session, and for like two weeks. Rooting around in her locker, she searched for the pop tart she’d thrown in her bag this morning. 

Santana wasn’t surprised when she saw Rachel nearing in her peripheral vision, hands clutching her back pack straps, eager eyed. She smiled awkwardly, hinting for an answer as to why she was there, stood like a sentinel. 

“Hi.” She just stood, smiling, bordering on creepy. 

“Yes?” 

“I just wanted to say hi,” Rachel said, shifting from foot to foot. 

“Okay weirdo.” As she shut her locker, Rachel rolled her eyes, sighing, before falling into step beside her. 

“What’re you eating for lunch?” 

“A cold pop tart. Don’t tell Coach.” Not that Rachel would even be allowed to go within five feet of the woman. 

“You’re going to eat a cold pop tart for lunch?” The incredulity was kind of ridiculous. Her eyebrows were almost touching, right up to her hairline. 

“Yeah and what about it?” Santana was pretty sure that Rachel was trying not to roll her eyes again. Maybe she had some sort of behavioural influence on her. If so, Santana hoped it didn’t go both ways and she’d soon start eating vegan food and alternating between a side and middle parting every few weeks (honestly, that girl couldn’t make up her mind). 

“I just- would you like to eat lunch together?” She said it without meeting Santana’s eyes, missing her raised eyebrows. “I have spare pasta and we have next period together, so...” She trailed off, shrugging a little self consciously. 

Santana had been planning on sitting with the Cheerios today, but she met Quinn’s eyes across the hall and immediately made up her mine. “Okay.”

So now she was willingly eating lunch with Berry, so what? She’d say it was just to piss of Quinn. 

The only logical reason she had for choosing a seat right in the centre of the cafeteria was because Brittany was watching them when they walked in, and maybe she just wanted to make her jealous or something. Not that there was anything to be jealous about. Just- it didn’t make sense, but it did. Because Brittany’s attention was piqued (as well as the rest of the glee club, narrowed eyes watching them diligently) and that was enough. 

They sat in silence, a table over from the gleeks, organising their food (Santana just had to pull back the foil, but Rachel looked like she was setting up a five course meal). Glee had taken up half of lunch, so she worked quickly on the pop tart, getting a quarter of the way through before Rachel spoke up. 

“Do you want some?” She pointed to her food, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“I don’t know. Vegan cheese creeps me out,” Santana shivered, mind going straight to what sort of stuff they made it from. The only thing she could come up with was tree bark or grass. Or yeast, and that- 

“Just try it. It’s not bad.” After a reassuring nod she took Rachel’s fork from her, ignoring the quiet protest that she had another (like she’d weirdly planned on sharing) stabbing at a piece of pasta and placing it right in her mouth. Chewing with caution, she swallowed without gagging, surprisingly. 

With a shrug, she placed the fork down, “It’s okay.” 

“Similar to standard cheese?” She asked hopefully, like she was planning on converting her. As if. Like she’d give up Hershey’s kisses or burgers. Now she wanted a burger. 

“Well, you can’t get close when you only have grass to work with,” She took a bite of the pop tart, chewing loudly, ignoring Rachel’s grimace. 

“It’s actually made from a variation of ingredients, from vegetables to cashew-“

“To soil.” Smirking, Santana laughed as Rachel admonished her, slapping at her arm. They barely noticed Porcelain and Wheezy loitering near them, and they wouldn’t have if they didn’t butt in to their conversation. 

“Hi Rachel.” Kurt said, eyeing Santana warily like a seagull wanting food. Maybe he’d reach down and swallow the rest of her pop tart whole. It wouldn’t be hard to believe he didn’t have teeth, considering they were receding like Mr Schue’s hairline. 

“Hello Kurt, Mercedes.” Smiling widely at each of them, Rachel turned away from Santana and looked like she was about to invite them all to a tea party. 

“We should totes make vegan pop tarts,” Speaking around her food, Santana appraised the pop tart with a critical eye, working out what sort of ingredients it would take. Rachel stared at her blankly, blinking a few times, as if reminding her they had (unwanted) guests. “Oh, hey.” She barely glanced at them before looking inside the pop tart, discerning the layers. 

“What’re you guys...doing?” Mercedes asked, watching Santana chew on her cold food with her face all screwed up like Santana was eating leaves (that would be Rachel Vegan Berry). She looked constipated. 

“Eating lunch...” Rachel answered hesitantly, a hint of confusion. It was obvious  what they were doing. Santana guessed the real question was _why_. 

“Together?” 

Rachel looked a little lost. Like she doubted Santana would back up their friendship and say she’d tied their ankles together and chained her to the floor. 

“You got a problem with that?” She narrowed her eyes at each of them, screwing up the wrapper of her finished pop tart. It dropped to the table silently and left Santana’s fist clenched tightly. 

“Well, uh-”

If it weren’t for Rachel’s unfinished lunch she would’ve just dragged her out of there. She really couldn’t be bothered for glee club dramatics, and she didn’t want Finn sticking his beak in - he already looked like he wanted to intervene, Quinn watching beside him, Brittany staring. Maybe they should’ve gone to a spare classroom or sat in the choir room. 

No, fuck that, she wasn’t hiding from the  _ glee club_. That would be pathetic. 

“If you want all up in Rachel’s vegan pasta just ask. Unless you were asking for help chewing your solids, Lady Hummel?” 

The boy crossed his arms, jaw tightening, but didn’t express any signs that he’d been offended. “ _ No.  _ We just wanted to know why on Earth Rachel would willingly eat lunch with you. Blackmail was one of the leading theories.” 

Yeah...Santana was kind of a bitch, but she wasn’t evil. She’d been mostly slack on all of the club since she’d joined, apart from the occasional insult or empty threat, and it wasn’t like she’d ever slushied any of them. That wasn’t her thing, she was more brutal with her words. And she’d eaten lunch with them before. Probably a few times. So, what the fuck was their problem? 

“I was the one to ask Santana to join me for lunch. Your worries are unnecessary, and frankly rather rude,” Rachel’s lips were pursed, a bit like Miranda Priestly’s from The Devil Wears Prada, and Santana might’ve actually felt threatened if she were on the other end of the expression. It felt kinda good not to be, for once, and have somebody backing her up. 

Mercedes and Kurt were eyeing each other, then Santana, then Rachel - who was swiftly packing away her half eaten lunch - in a quick succession of confusion, suspicion and disbelief. “Come on Tana, let’s get to English early.” 

A hand loosely took ahold of her wrist, leading her away from the duo, ten sets of eyes watching their departure. It was only in the hall that she stopped, fingers still wrapped around her arm, looking entirely too upset for such a meaningless encounter. 

“I don’t understand why they were being the way they were,” Frowning at the ground, she rubbed her fingertips across Santana’s skin like it was her that needed soothing. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t care. Santana didn’t really know what she felt. 

“The glee club don’t like me,” She shrugged, the toe of her shoe scuffing the floor. 

“I think they’ve been rather presumptuous.” 

“It’s whatever.” It didn’t even sound convincing to herself.

“No, Santana. Although at times you can be quite prickly, perhaps even mean...you’re not  _ cruel_. That behaviour was unwarranted.” It was stated like an absolute. An ultimate truth, cradled between cupped palms and wrapped up in a bow by one Rachel Berry. It left her no choice but to believe it. 

“Thanks,” Offering up a soft smile, she allowed her palm to slip over Rachel’s - soft and  _ there _ \- squeezing briefly before dropping her arm back to her side. 

“Why don’t we go to class? Get a head-start today. We’ve basically got it down.” 

“Yes, although I’m glad we have this last lesson to make sure everything’s  _ perfect_,” She clapped her hands together lightly, smiling a lot wider than necessary. 

“We’re already perfect,” Santana twirled her hair in mock arrogance, shrugging as she did it. Like the weight of their awesomeness was just too much. I mean- it kinda was. 

“True.”

It didn’t take long to hash out everything and make sure their lines were memorised. They would’ve been ready to stand in front of the class today, but they had until next week. 

It was a relief to have it over and done with. She thought for a moment that Rachel’s invitation to dinner might’ve been a way to hold onto their friendship, as some sort of insurance, like she was afraid Santana would ditch her once they had no obligations towards each other.

The end of the day lifted a weight off her shoulders. She planned to just relax tonight, maybe listen to some music and read or something.

Santana  _ tried _ to ignore the figure in the corner of her eye, inching closer (she really just wanted to get home and leave all the dramatics in lunch period) but it was pretty damn hard when she was staring directly at her and very clearly wanting to say something. It only took a few seconds before said figure was sidling up beside her, like Rachel had, only less creepy. “Hi Santana.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned only slightly, offering an awkward smile. “Uh...hello.” Her palms were clammy against the metal of her locker, so she shoved her head back inside, pretending to look for something to avoid facing her head on. There’d been too many moments at this locker that didn’t end well. 

“I feel like we haven’t hung out in forever,” Brittany said, tilting her head to the side in a way that usually disarmed her, eyes all soft and vulnerable and shit. 

This time, she only focused on the annoyance the words inflicted, letting out a half scoff, half  _ hmph_. “Yeah? I didn’t think you’d noticed.”  _ You’re too busy with Artie_. She might’ve said it if it didn’t sound so pathetic. 

“Of course I’ve noticed,” Lowering her voice, as if telling a secret, she leant closer, “You’re my best friend.” 

“Look, I gotta get to...home.” Santana pushed her locker shut a little too forcefully, walking away as quickly as her feet would carry her.

“Wait,” A hand took her wrist, urging her to turn around, clasping her hand with an urgency. “Can we talk?” See, she’d always been persuasive. Especially with eye contact, depths of blue that reflected every emotion she was feeling. Santana had to bite her tongue to stop herself from agreeing right away. 

“Right now?” Glancing at the people moving about them, some watching the encounter, she raised her eyebrows. Brittany seemed to get the message, because she deflated, a little frown pulling at each of her features. 

“Soon then? I miss you.” 

“Yeah,” Was all she could manage, along with a curt shrug. It was only once she’d walked away (successfully, this time) that she mouthed the words back, completely missing Rachel on the way out. 

•••

The pages skimmed past her fingertips like sand, or water seeping through the gaps. Landing on a random one, she jabbed her fingertip onto the first stanza she saw, the skin turning a paler shade as it remained pressed into the words harshly. 

_ 238: I want you to know, if you ever read this, there was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world. _

Tracing each letter with her nail, she reread it a few times, cataloguing the words and analysing the spaces between them. The lines seemed to stretch and distort the longer she stared without blinking, a sharp sting and blurred edges from the tears slowly gathering at her lash line. When she blinked, she saw the words behind her eyelids, the sting disappearing as they danced across the emptiness in flashes of colour. Seeing blue and linked pinkies and worn sneakers to dance in. 

The poem was still and structured when she opened them again. A neat little block of typed words, words that held no real meaning individually, but when sewn together to form a picture beyond simple language, meant too much to Santana. 

Uncapping her blue fine liner, she underlined the number - a strict line much like the flow of the poem. Her own mark distinguished from Rachel’s in the poems she’d passed by earlier. A line that signified the impact the words had on her in that moment of time. Like marking your height on the doorframe every year during your childhood. Maybe she’d come back in a different headspace, a few months later, with a lighter shade of blue and a new perspective. 

The vinyl Rachel had bought her was playing, the lyrics too - like poetry. Maybe the girl was taunting her. The  _ I can’t think of air without thinking of you _ had Rachel’s dramatics written all over it (even though Santana secretly thought it was kind of a beautiful line) but the _ when I'm not being honest I pretend that you were just some lover  _ mirrored Santana’s emotional detachment, memories of rejecting Brittany’s efforts to actually talk about their feelings in the hopes of some self preservation (what that preservation was for was never really clear, even to herself). 

Maybe Rachel had stolen her DNA, and used it to somehow see through her. She wasn’t a transparent person, so why, suddenly, did she feel that way? It made her feel stupid. 

Slamming the book shut, she pushed it halfway across the desk. 

•••

“So...that talk.” She tapped her toes left to right, almost swivelling on her feet. “Can we do that tomorrow after school?” 

“I can’t,” Santana muttered, pulling her books out of her locker. She probably had a shit tonne of homework she was behind on. It was weird that all of their conversations ended up happening at lockers. Maybe they had some sort of symbolism. She looked it up once and a weird dream website said it represented wanting to keep something private. That pretty much summed up Santana’s thoughts towards almost everything in her life,  _ especially _ the extent of her relationship with Brittany, including keeping her own feelings from herself. 

“We could go to Breadstix.” Brittany had come to find her right after second period the next day, all hopeful and pleading. Soon to Santana was an indefinite amount of time, but preferably a week at minimum. To Brittany, that clearly meant less then twenty four hours.

“I’m busy.” It was probably all kinds of rude and not in her handbook of how to interact with Brittany, but she was so over feeling this way. At her sad pout, Santana rolled her eyes. “I’ve got plans with Rachel tomorrow. Just- another time, or something.” 

“But-“ 

“If you can brush off plans to hang out with Artie, I can brush off plans to hang out with Rachel.” If Brittany seemed shocked by the sharpness to her voice, she didn’t show it. 

She blinked a few times, tilting her head to the side like she was trying to see inside Santana’s brain, before raising an eyebrow. “I thought you said she dressed like an ugly, old witch disguised as a librarian, but not the sexy kind. And that hearing her voice at a close proximity gave you tuberculosis.”

“Tinnitus, Britt,” She corrected, voice a little softer. She barely caught Rachel’s eyes across the hall as she passed by before the girl was looking away. “We’re like, okay now, I guess.” 

“San-“

“Look, I get you want us to be all Wonder Twins again, or whatever, but I can’t even look at you without remembering everything that went down.” It was spoken in a quiet whisper, almost urgent as she scanned the hallway for anybody lurking nearby with pricked ears. “I’m having dinner at Rachel’s, so, maybe you should help Artie bathe and dissemble his wheelchair to find loose screws, or whatever you two do for date night.” 

Brittany was pouting again, not even purposeful or strategic, just a genuine sadness that never failed to turn Santana’s heart to mush. “But I’ve already asked if I could take apart his wheelchair to find a switch that would turn him into a transformer...he wouldn’t let me.” 

“Maybe stick to the bath, then.” Almost reaching to pat her shoulder, she thought better of it. 

“Well...can we talk on Friday? I miss you.” 

The sincerity in her voice had Santana’s chest squeezing painfully. It felt like her ribs were crushing in against her lungs and forcing the air out. It was fucked up how she still felt herself wanting to just...accept everything being handed to her, no matter how small. It was fucking depressing that it felt like the scraps. Like she’d gone through her schedule, made sure she didn’t have a fucking wheel polishing session with Artie, before scheduling in a slither of time for somebody that used to be so centric to her life, and was now on the periphery. 

Maybe this is how Brittany felt when Santana assured her the only reason they were making out and stuff was because Puck wasn’t around. Then there was the guilt, Brittany’s pleading eyes and- really, no wasn’t even an option. “Okay.”

The cheer she got in response was almost worth it. “Let’s go it the park. Can we feed ducks?” 

Her excited grin was enough to elicit a grin of her own, and okay, maybe going to the park wasn’t the end of the world. Especially not with Brittany. “Sure, Britt.” 

The way she skipped away to head to class, looking over her shoulder with the biggest grin, was  _ definitely _ worth it. She didn’t even notice she was still staring in the direction she’d left in until Rachel cleared her throat beside her. “Um, what did Brittany want?”

“Nothing.” Her tone was clipped, punctuated with a shrug as she made it a point not to look back down the hall. 

“Oh, okay.” Santana didn’t even register the saddened tone to it. “Well, remember, the dinner is tomorrow.” 

“Yeah.”

Maybe Brittany would bring that huge baguette she’d brought once. Half of it would surely be eaten by themselves. 

•••

Rachel’s house was as obnoxiously lit as she remembered it to be. All these circular floor-lights going up the bricked drive, these weird ass lanterns hanging near the door, and stringed lights over the little archway. 

Glancing between the antique door knocker, the bell, and the oak, she contemplated the method of knocking. Realising she was being fucking weird, she pressed the bell and leant back on her heels, hands shoved into jacket pockets. 

Rachel answered the door and it was clear she’d put in quite a bit of an effort in this cute sweater dress and- shit, it’d worked. She looked hot, but like, totally hot  _ hot_. With these curves Santana didn’t even know existed and those damn legs. 

So, she’d also kinda made an effort by wearing a black dress herself. She didn’t, like, want Rachel’s gay dads to think she’d been hanging around with a slob this whole time. Her boots were new too, but she totally didn’t plan that. 

“Santana,” She was all smiles as she gestured for her to come inside, tugging at a lock of curled hair and offering to take her leather jacket. She ran the sleeve through her fingertips as she hung it on the coat rack, which- should  _ not _ have been attractive, chatting mindlessly about glee or something. Santana was busy looking at her ass. 

She’d never actually met Rachel’s dads. There’d been glimpses at competitions, and countless mentions of them (she thought it was somehow a personality trait that she had two fathers). So, when Rachel’s white dad, who looked kinda like the guy from Jurassic Park, greeted her with a pat on the back, leading her into the living room and talking about Viennetta...yeah, she was taken aback. Finally, she understood where Rachel’s crazy came from.

“Dad. She just got here,” Rachel linked their arms, trying to tug her away like she was being held captive. 

“I’m simply getting Santana’s opinion on types of dessert. It’s a great way to judge a person. You know, I have Paul Hollywood’s personal cheesecake recipe tucked away in the kitchen somewhere.” 

“Hiram, that wasn’t Paul Hollywood. It was the chef on our Ultimate Disco Cruise last year.” The other dad - Leroy was it? - came strolling in with a towel flipped over his shoulder, and...this night was gonna be weird. 

They did a performance around the piano, even though Rachel had looked a little hesitant - which,  _ Rachel_, hesitant to preform? Maybe even a little embarrassed. Her cheeks were all red as Santana sat there watching them with wide eyes because she’d never seen anything weirder. But- it was kind of cute. They sounded good together and Rachel was being all bashful, so she just smiled reassuringly and clapped when they’d finished. 

Hiram asked her all these questions about whether she could dance, sing, do a back handspring, but then remembered her performance of Valerie and said he’d never been so happy his daughter didn’t get the solo. Rachel wasn’t happy. 

Leroy was more chill, a few questions about family, about college or where she wanted to go after high school. 

“I don’t really know yet,” She shrugged, avoiding Rachel’s curious eyes. 

“Well, there’s time.” 

It wasn’t until they brought out the picture album and left for the kitchen halfway through that she really relaxed. Rachel wasn’t the embarrassed kind when it came to pictures in her past. She was actually kind of arrogant, pointing out all these events she’d won awards at; beaming at the camera with mini trophies. 

“Aww, your nose has always been cutely disproportionate to the rest of your face,” Santana remarked, pointing to a picture of toddler Rachel Berry, wearing a tutu and stood in a pirouette that she herself didn’t master until she was eight. 

“Cutely?” Scrunching up her nose, Rachel blinked at her slowly. 

“What? Nobody said that,” She glanced around, pretending to look for the culprit. 

“You just did.” A little smile was pulling at the corner of her mouth. Santana just rolled her eyes. 

“I think you need your hearing checked or something,” She shrugged, flicking her ear. 

“Santana!” 

“Look, I swear.” Placing a hand over her chest, she became grave. 

“You can’t swear when I just heard you say it!” Rachel almost whined, hitting her arm. 

“Oh look, your gay dads are coming back,” She made a spectacle of pointing at them, the best distraction technique. 

“Why do you feel the need to refer to them that way each time?” She hushed as Leroy announced that dinner was ready. 

“I don’t know. So there’s no confusion?”

The vegan cheese wasn’t actually disgusting. Or poison. Rachel’s parents weren’t vegan, or vegetarian, but they’d made a vegan lasagna for each of them and Santana almost couldn’t tell the difference. Well, she could, but she enjoyed it. Rachel looked smug about that. 

The smugness was soon wiped out when Hiram started telling a ridiculous story about Rachel and squirrels or something that had her hiding behind her hands. Santana was laughing along, thoroughly enjoying herself at the expense of Rachel’s discomfort. But, she realised, it went beyond that. She was enjoying their company, and the food, and learning new things about the girl. Trivial stuff, really, but it seemed important, somehow. Maybe she was the only person in the glee club to know it and that held some weight with her. (What a fucking joke). 

The fact Santana was enjoying dinner with Rachel and her gay dads was a troubling revelation, but maybe the smile on the other girls face was worth it. Because really, she had a pretty nice smile (when Santana didn’t think about the whole blue tooth thing). 

It was only once they were stood in Rachel’s room, the ugly yellow walls making her cringe, that she realised just how much she’d been smiling that night. 

“So, did you really enjoy dinner, or were you just being polite?” Rachel was straightening up a row of headbands she had on her dresser, the same thing copied and pasted but with just slightly different hues, glancing over her shoulder with this soft look.

“It was surprisingly nice,” She nodded unnecessarily, way too awkward to be something she’d seriously just done. What the fuck was wrong with her?

“Great.” Clasping her hands, she shucked in a breath, looking about her own room like she didn’t know where anything was. 

“Yeah.”

A beat passed before any of them did anything. 

“Do you wanna...listen to music?” 

“Okay.” 

“You can sit down.”

“Okay.”  _ Well done, Shakespeare, don’t rush to fit an entire soliloquy onto one page or anything.  _

She stretched out on Rachel’s bed as the girl placed a vinyl on her record player, straightening her dress before sitting next to her. Santana was pretty sure it was Radiohead, certain when she saw the vinyl cover Rachel still had grasped in her hands. 

They listened to the first song in silence. You. She’d forgotten how much guitar was in it. When it transitioned to a more familiar guitar melody, she began tapping her foot to the rhythm, humming quietly. 

“Wanna make out?” Rachel asked casually, all inconspicuous, brushing off her vinyl cover. 

Santana thought it over for a few seconds, weighing the pros and cons, only coming up with one of the latter. “Will you get all creepy afterwards?” Hah. That was fitting. 

“No?” She placed the cover down, turning towards her with legs crossed, the light shrouding her head in a perfect circle just as Thom Yorke sang  _you’re just like an angel_. 

“Look, if I do this, you’re not gonna confess your love in glee or anything right?” Rachel shook her head, tight-lipped. “You can think I’m hot and not have to love me. Maybe getting our mack on will show you that.” 

“Okay, but don’t make it sound like you’re doing me a favour. I’m not a charity case,” She said haughtily, doing that dramatic as shit hair flick she always did. 

“I already told you I think you’re kind of hot, okay?” Santana sat up, placing a hand on her forearm. Rachel stared at it intently, losing the casual demeanour she’d been trying to hold onto. 

“I was just thinking...” She lifted her hand, brushing Santana’s own faintly, resting it just to the side. “Maybe it could show me that there isn’t some fireworks moment or something. I’m a terrible romantic, Santana, I think proof would be good.” 

“Proof, right,” She nodded, distracted by the movement of her fingers right next to her own. Looking up, Rachel’s face was just slightly closer. “We did kiss before. What’s one more?” 

Shifting, she felt Rachel’s breath brush against her cheek as she agreed quietly. “Exactly”

Rachel’s lips were soft, was what she thought first. And so was her hand, wrapped around her knuckles where they were gripping Rachel’s arm. Her body, pressing into hers, was pliable and curved against her own. But, there was also something determined about it. Like even when it came to kissing Rachel was ambitious - meticulous and resolute. 

Like, although her lips melded with her own, they wouldn’t bend to her will. 

So, yeah, she was a pretty damn good kisser. Puck was right. But she didn’t want to think about Puck when she was getting her mack on with Rachel. She didn’t even think about Puck when she was getting her mack on with Puck. 

It was easy to let herself go like this. To just forget about everything and let her body lead her. To succumb to just sense pleasure, a palm sliding up her arm to grip at her bare shoulder, lips and teeth and then tongue (surprisingly not initiated by herself). She lifted her hands to cup Rachel’s jaw, sliding then around the back of her head and gripping at the hair there as she pushed them further back onto the bed. The quiet sound she made was fucking heaven to her ears. Like the bridge of a song, at its climax. 

Kissing girls was probably how she’d reach nirvana someday. It wasn’t even in the same realm as kissing guys. That shit felt like something she had to do, unnatural and forced. This, her intuition took over and everything just kinda fit. 

With Rachel, it felt just a little too right. Like maybe it was something she had to do more often. Santana didn’t like that feeling. 

“I’m sorry, Rachel, we shouldn’t do this.” She broke away, chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to distance herself, hands clasped tightly together. 

It didn’t help that Rachel’s hair totally looked all mussed up and her eyes were still kinda glossed over like she was halfway between reality and somewhere else, whilst the stupid song was talking about running - something she was all too familiar with. 

“Why?” She breathed, fist opening and closing like she was trying to fight the urge to reach for her. 

“This is just gonna confuse you and shit,” Was all she could come up with. Probably a pretty fucking low blow. She could tell that by the way Rachel’s eyebrows furrowed and a flash of hurt passed through her eyes. Like a candle right in the centre of a tornado; it was snuffed out quickly to something impassive. 

Clearing her throat, Rachel sat up fully and straightened out her dress, carding her fingers through her hair. “If it makes you feel any better, there were no fireworks.” 

Santana simply nodded, up, down, straight ahead. 

“But I am incredibly turned on right now.” 

She was pretty sure her eyes popped out of their sockets. Like those cartoons. “Shit, Rachel, you can’t say stuff like that.”

“I’m just being frank with you, Santana. You’ve done the same for me.” 

“Right.” 

If the last time they’d kissed and had to say goodbye was awkward, this was just torture. She was pretty certain it was because of her this time. Because it didn’t feel so trivial now. It had some weight. Maybe she valued their friendship too much, where before it’d all been so hesitant. 

It was just a fucking mess. Maybe she had a track record of fucking friendships up by kissing people. It didn’t help that she couldn’t look at Rachel without hearing the sound she made, or remembering the feel of her tongue in her mouth. 

Saying goodbye to the Berry dads was the only moment that broke away from the tension, even if just a little bit. They told her she’d have to come around again, all smiles and even  _hugs - she was hugging Rachel’s gay dads_ \-  completely unaware of the fact Santana totes just swapped spit with their kid. What a tragedy. 

She totally contracted melodramatic disease from kissing Rachel. 

Standing in her doorway like Santana had the other week, Rachel smiled at her all sweetly, biting her lip and sending every one of Santana’s thoughts straight to the gutter. “Tonight was nice.”

“Yeah. Your dads are cool.” What a fucking lame response. All she wanted was for a horror creature from one of Stephen King’s weird ass books to come and swallow her whole. 

“They are.” 

It was a social travesty. She’d said bye and basically ran down the drive to her car. And for what? It wasn’t like she liked Rachel. That was just ridiculous. 

Still, she thought about her when she was trying to sleep, and over her coffee in the morning as her mom tried to force feed her an omelette for breakfast. Santana would say it was just because she was totally hot and her tongue was downright sinful. God, she didn’t wanna be thinking about this shit with her mom nearby. That woman had telepathic powers she was sure, kinda like Santana’s psychic Mexican third eye (which, she was Puerto Rican, so she probably had to think about rebranding that one). 

School was a bit better. She had classes to distract her, and Rachel’s presence, so she had to think about Rachel when Rachel was there, else that was kind of rude. Right? It wasn’t like she was picturing their wedding and kids. Just- her lips, on Santana’s lips. It wasn’t new to her. She was a sexual being. So what if it was Rachel she thought about now?

Brittany’s little wave to her as she passed by after the lunch bell was reminder enough of why she shouldn’t have complicated her and Rachel’s friendship. Something always went wrong, and it was usually her fault. 

And here Rachel was, all smiles, asking her to lunch in the choir room to plan what to wear for their stupid Shakespeare performance next week so there was some level of coordination. She didn’t know what difference the colour shirt they wore made, but Rachel was sure there was one. 

Whatever. She brought spare dessert from the dinner so, at least Santana got something out of it. 

They decided on white and black because for some reason Rachel thought the comparison would highlight their differences in a way that played on the idea of opposites attracting and rivalry to romance or whatever. It was totally over the top and way too much for a little English project that probably didn’t even count that much towards their grade, but she humoured her. If only to use it as leverage someday to get her to do something. 

She looked like she wanted to say something for half the time there, but Santana really couldn’t be bothered for some heart to heart so she tried to rush them along, standing as soon as they’d finished with the excuse that she had to talk to Sue. 

It was only when she looked about ready to explode that Santana sighed, turning to her with hands jammed in her jean pockets. “Rachel. You look constipated. What it is?” 

Suddenly, she was stood before her, resolute. “Would you like to come over on Friday?” She blurted out, barely pausing for breath before rushing ahead, “We could watch a movie, not a musical if you don’t like musicals. Well, you might like them, sorry for assuming. You were good in Rocky Horror, so, maybe you do. Or we could listen to music, don’t worry I won’t play Barbara Streisand. Or...” 

For a second she humoured the idea. But then creep was playing in her head. For some reason whenever they’d been left alone in the others house something had happened and- she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. Oh, and  _ Brittany_. Dammit, she’d almost forgotten. 

“Sorry, I can’t.” She had the decency to offer up an apologetic smile, “I’m meeting Brittany.” 

“Oh.” Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Rachel tried to school her disappointed frown. “What’re you guys going to do?” Her voice had gone up a pitch, kind of nasally and almost like someone’s fingers were squeezing at her throat.

“Feed ducks,” She shrugged, movement restricted by the hands still in her pockets. 

“Why are you meeting her?” _Jeez_ , Santana could practically feel the shit show that was about to go down. Her third eye was vibrating. 

“She’s my best friend.”

Rachel blanched, like somehow they were meant to be besties or something. Like they’d been friends for years and suddenly Santana was running off with somebody else. 

“She- she rejected you, Santana,” She said, hurt laced in her voice like she was the one that had her heart broken at those stupid lockers. 

“Thanks for the fucking reminder.” She hadn’t really meant to sound that bitter, but seriously, who the fuck said that? 

“I just- I don’t understand _why_.” Neither did she, truthfully. She’d rather Brittany just forgot about her altogether than flit between herself and Artie. But, when it came down to it, she’d take anything she could get from the girl. And who was Rachel to stick her big nose in? “I thought-“ 

“You thought what?” Santana snapped, narrowing her eyes. It kind of reminded her of when Brittany asked to do a duet. 

“I don’t know.” She was looking at the ground, hair falling to cover her face. “I just- she’ll hurt you.” 

“How do you know that? We’re just feeding ducks.” The defensive anger she’d so often let get out of control when involving Brittany was steadily rising. 

This was Brittany, the girl who would never intentionally hurt anybody. Who would do anything to keep the people around her happy. And here was Rachel, who mostly thought about herself, making statements like she had any say over what Santana did and who she spent her time with. It just- it fucking got to her, okay? 

“Santana.” The hand reaching out to grab her own was like the icing on the cake. 

“You’re not my freaking girlfriend, Rachel! You’re not anything, okay. Just...back off.” The words rang out across the choir room walls, Rachel flinching under their volume, and- probably the words too. Because then this look- this...shattered look just seemed to take over her face; a shift in her eyes and the pull of her lips and even her eyebrows, furrowed so intensely and conveying such...just, conveying so much, they looked like they had features of their own. Every single thought was displayed in her eyes, shiny and reflecting Santana’s own face of shock back at her. 

She physically watched as they shifted from a mix of devastation, disappointment and...heartbreak, to resolution. To acceptance. And maybe even a little bit of resentment. 

“I understand.” The words seemed almost foreign. Broken up and barely registering in Santana’s mind. She couldn’t even really comprehend what she’d said, what brought it on, why Rachel was here, why she was here. All she understood was that Rachel’s slow nod seemed final. The way she turned her chin up, holding onto some semblance of pride, and started heading out- it seemed like this was the end of whatever weird friendship they’d formed. 

“Wait-“

She was gone. And all Santana was left with was this crushing guilt, and a strange sense of emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. I didn’t really plan on adding too much angst to this story, but it never hurts. Thoughts?? 
> 
> The poetry book is Bluets by Maggie Nelson btw xo


	6. Act II, Scene III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I get it, okay? But- that doesn’t change the fact that I care about you. It doesn’t change the fact that I obviously can’t compare to somebody like Brittany, even in friendship, and that I’ll always be second choice for anybody.” It was spoken like an analytic proposition. An inevitability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t read through this properly because I’m super tired but I wanted to post before I went to sleep :/ hope you enjoy x
> 
> CW: Use of homophobic slurs and degrading sexual language

**  
-**

Scraping the toe of her boot across the concrete, she watched as the gravel dragged along with it. She kicked the floor, tiny fragments of rock dispersing like a ripple in a lake, getting lost in all the other fragments. Hands in her pockets, Santana rested against the hood of her car and tried to clear her mind of any stupid thoughts that clung to the sides of her brain like parasites by focusing on the things she could see, like her misted breath, or feel - the cold breeze nipping at her nose, or even the sound of a kid screaming whilst being pushed on a swing too high. 

She hated this feeling. This feeling that there was something that needed to be fixed and she didn’t now how or what to fix. Like trying to piece together a conclusion for an essay you didn’t really have a structure for, or any valid points that led to the final answer. This...therefore. 

Brittany was making her way across the street, two hot chocolates in hand, smiling like there were rainbows painting the sky or something. 

“I got dark chocolate for you. I don’t know why you like that stuff.” Brittany did her best to frown disgustedly, but she couldn’t really pull off the whole bitch thing. 

“Thanks.” Clasping her cold fingers around the cup, she offered a smile. 

A part of her mind wondered what she’d be doing if she went over to Rachel’s, whilst another part tried to ignore Brittany’s warmth right next to her as she leant against the headlight of her car.

“I forgot the bread,” Brittany spoke after a while, wiping some whipped cream from her nose with a sleeve. 

“It’s okay.” 

“Santana.” A few beats, a sharp intake of breath, and then she turned away as if she’d been searching for something she didn’t receive. Maybe it’s because Santana just stared at the way her fingers curled around the cardboard. “I miss you.” 

“I know.” She really wanted to offer more. About how she so desperately missed Brittany, missed her voice and her smiles and her lips, but she’d always been a fucking coward.

“I wish you’d be my friend again.” It was quiet, laced with hurt. 

“I’m still your friend, Britt,” Reaching for the girls hand, she pulled back last minute and curled it up into her pocket. 

Turning to her, Brittany stared, all sad looking in Santana’s peripheral vision. “But it’s not the same.” 

Turning, she arched an eyebrow, “The same?” If things were the same, they’d be having sex and not talking about it. Santana didn’t think that fit in with the whole monogamous relationship thing Brittany had going on. Maybe they’d have gotten there if she hadn’t been such a pussy. 

“Yeah.” 

“We can’t be  the _same_ when you’re dating Artie,” Santana spat the words, harsh, ignoring the way Brittany recoiled. 

It took a moment for her to understand. A quiet few seconds where she looked at Santana with a mix of curiosity and hurt, until the realisation dawned on her: all visible through the changes in expression. She really did wear her heart on her sleeve. “I didn’t mean like that.”

“Then what did you mean?” 

“I don’t know. I just know that I miss you, and I’m sorry that I upset you, and I want my best friend back.” It was kind of silly that Brittany was here heartbroken when she had a boy she could run to. Who did Santana have? A fucking poetry book and music. 

“We can’t always get what we want.” 

They sat with silence between them, both in their thoughts. Santana’s were loud and self hating. So much for a nice trip to the park. They hadn’t even gotten there. Just sat across the street near some run down, private shops, Santana’s car hard against the backs of their legs. If only Brittany had remembered the bread. Maybe the conversation would’ve turned out less bitter. 

“Are you and Rachel?” She didn’t elaborate, just, left that as it was. 

“No.” Santana didn’t allow the question to hang in the air, speaking sharply. She didn’t want to think about Rachel, she’d done enough of that these past few days. It was worse when she saw that stupid sad look in her eyes. 

It was final. Brittany didn’t say anything more, just sipped on her hot chocolate too loudly, knowing by now when or when not to push her for more. There wasn’t anything more. That was that. 

Maybe it wasn’t the conversation Brittany missed, but her presence, because after a while she seemed okay again. Like maybe it was okay for her to smile. 

-

Santana felt relieved she had the weekend. That way she didn’t have to deal with Rachel turning on the spot every time she saw her, or the looming threat of their English assignment, which, she couldn’t imagine them being able to pull off. But if Rachel was anything she was a brilliant actress. 

She hadn’t actually talked to her since the argument. Or the- Santana being a bitch and upsetting her. She didn’t really expect to, considering the whole...being a bitch and upsetting her. But, still, it was a shock, considering she hadn’t been able to get rid of her just before. Now there was a sort of emptiness where Rachel’s blabbering usually was, and for once she missed it. She wouldn’t allow herself to acknowledge that fact, but it was still there, just beneath the surface. 

She could ignore it all on Saturday and Sunday, mostly holed up in her room playing reggae cause fuck, if she didn’t need to calm her tits (even though that shit reminded her of Rachel now), working on the essays she had to do by next week. It was almost a relief, dancing around her room in her underwear to Janet Kay and Dennis Brown. Her mom had come upstairs at one point (when she was wearing clothes) and asked her if she was okay, because Santana listening to reggae wasn’t strange, but Santana listening to reggae for almost two days straight  _was_. 

She’d just said she planned to sing a song in glee or some shit. Her mom still looked concerned, but whatever, she wasn’t the one that’d been upset. 

On Monday, however, she was slapped in the face by a very pissed off Rachel. Not literally  _ slapped_, the bitch would have her ass handed to her, no matter how short she was Santana would still throw hands. It was more blatant than Friday, where she’d just avoided her, probably still upset about the whole thing. Now it seemed her anger had festered over the weekend and she was harsher. 

It started with knocking into her in the hallway and continuing onwards without so much as glancing in her direction. Then it was a question to Artie about what he’d done with Brittany on Friday evening, which- what the  _ fuck_? That was just stirring the pot. 

Then in glee Rachel had said they needed to do ten times as better in regionals than in sectionals because they hadn’t chosen their strongest vocalists,  _ especially _ for the solo, and the performance was kind of lacklustre. That almost felt like the last straw. Santana was practically seething beside Brittany, who had made it a point to hang around her a bit more, nails digging half moons into her palms. Yet, she stayed silent, because she knew it came from a place of hurt, not spite, and maybe she was finally listening to her mom about being nicer sometimes. 

Only when she’d questioned the ability of Santana’s dancing after Schuester asked her to help out with choreography did she snap. Grabbing Rachel by the wrist, she dragged her out of the room despite her protests, only stopping once they’d gotten far enough from the choir room that they wouldn’t eavesdrop. 

“I don’t appreciate you  _ manhandling _ me,” She spat out, the harshest she’d ever heard her, including the time she’d found out Santana had taken Finn’s v-card. “What are you going to do? Go all Lima Heights?” 

“Rachel. That’s enough,” Santana ground out, trying to remain calm. 

“What, are you telling  _ me _ what to do now? I thought it was me dictating what  _ you _ do.”

“What was I supposed to think when you were getting all possessive?” She defended, probably the wrong course of action, but she was riled up. 

“I wasn’t getting possessive. I was looking out for you,” Rachel said, all assertive and assured, like she _truly_ believed that.

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, that’s fine. But it’s a fucking lie and you know it.” 

Rachel went quiet, inhaling sharply. “I thought we were at least friends, Santana.” 

“We are,” She said, not even really believing it herself anymore. What sort of fucked up friendship was this? Maybe this was why they’d hated each other the whole time, because they just didn’t work. 

“Friends don’t tell you you virtually mean nothing to them,” She choked out, anger wavering as her eyes got all glassy 

Okay, she got her there...that was probably the worst thing she’d said to her. But, she didn’t really mean it like  _ that_. She’d just meant that they weren’t...romantic. Her justifications were weak even to herself. “Rachel-“ 

“No, Santana. I get it. I get that you don’t have feelings for me. That you still have them for Brittany.” Feeling the panic rising and a protest forming on her tongue, she stopped with the hand that raised itself centimetres away from her face. “Don’t lie to me right now, please.” 

Her mouth shut, recognising it was probably best to listen. She’d had problems with that before. 

“I get it, okay? But- that doesn’t change the fact that I care about you. It doesn’t change the fact that I obviously can’t compare to somebody like Brittany, even in friendship, and that I’ll always be second choice for  _ anybody_.” It was spoken like an analytic proposition. An inevitability. Like Rachel’s past, future and present were written around disappointment and never being enough to be chosen first. Maybe that’s why she strived so hard to be first in the things she could control: like glee club, competitions, her ambition. 

“Rachel, don’t.”

“You know it’s true,” She sighed, shaking her head. “Finn chose Quinn, Jesse chose vocal adrenaline, Kurt will always choose Mercedes, even my own mother chose a newborn child over her daughter, and now you will choose Brittany every time...without fail. I could see it coming and I got desperate, and maybe I seemed crazy to you, but I thought we were at least friendly enough that you wouldn’t be a complete and total jackass about it.” 

Trying to even out her breaths, Santana struggled under the tight feeling in her chest. Her vision went slightly blurry, something she couldn’t even try to stop. 

“You don’t get to play the victim card. I don’t need your stupid crocodile tears. Just- leave me alone,” She shoved past her, Santana’s shoulder knocking into the lockers, reminiscent of where this whole thing started. 

_ Shit_ . 

-

“Mamí.” Santana stood in her mother’s doorway, lip quivering as the woman offered a concerned glance, placing her crime novel down carefully. “I think I messed up.”

After sitting mostly silently at the dinner table, Maribel had questioned what was wrong, this sternness to her. Santana might’ve cried if she’d been softer, but they didn’t work like that. Of course she’d brushed it off, going up to her room to do “work”, which consisted of flicking through all her poetry books and writing down her favourites just to pass the time and focus on something else. The common theme was emptiness. 

When that got too much, blocks of words about blank spaces, she tried finishing the calculus work due the next day but could only get through one question. 

She considered calling Puck to hang out. They’d drink beer, he’d try to get into her pants (unless he was still hellbent on Lauren- which, Santana hadn’t been paying much attention to that development lately), and she’d probably leave feeling worse than she had before, so, maybe not. 

Quinn hadn’t been an option for months. Brittany for weeks. Rachel hated her. It put things into perspective, how fucking lonely she was. She’d gone and ruined the only functioning friendship she had left, just like all the others. 

Patting her bed, Maribel watched as Santana sat down, shoulders slumped. “What did you mess up, mija?” 

“I- Rachel.” A second passed as her mom watched her carefully, a hand holding hers. It loosened for a second, a hesitancy, before tightening again. “She hates me.” 

“What happened?” She asked, moving to place an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Santana wondered if this was too revealing. If her mother would be able to tell it was more than just...friends arguing. For a moment, she regretted even coming to her, but she just- she felt kind of lost. And here her Mamí was, rubbing her back, and maybe everything would be okay. 

“I upset her.” 

Maybe she knew, somehow, that this was as much information as she’d get. That Santana didn’t really want to tell her the how’s and why’s, because she was urging Santana to look at her with a hand brushing against her cheek, something she only ever did when she was upset. 

“You know what you’ve got to do, then.” 

“What’s that?” She tried to blink the tears away, feeling kind of foolish that she was crying when it was  _ her _ fault. 

“Apologise. Make it right,” Maribel said firmly, making it sound so simple. Perhaps it was. 

“I don’t know how to.” 

“Start with a sorry. A  _ real _ sorry. You hear me, Santana?” There was a no nonsense tone to it, not harsh, but telling her she needed to hold herself accountable and deal with it. 

“Okay,” She nodded resolutely, sniffling, “I can do that.” 

-

It was easier said than done, really. Rachel was like some sort of stealth wizard. If she was at her locker, she’d be gone by the time Santana built up the courage to walk over. She weaved like silk through the crowds and ducked around corners, invisible. And even if she managed to stop her, Santana didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry for being an ass? I’m sorry for...she wasn’t even sure what she was sorry for beyond hurting Rachel, and maybe that was the problem. 

Rachel was at her locker Tuesday morning, but with Kurt. They were talking about something animatedly, Broadway probably, and their eyes only met when Rachel turned to see a jock stepping into her personal space. 

“Hey, Lopez. What’re you doing this weekend?” He stank of entitlement. Leaning against the lockers, ankles crossed, smirking. He was looking at her tits more than her eyes. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” She brushed off, widening her locker so it blocked his face from view. 

He pushed it closed, almost trapping her fingers, getting close. “Come on, don’t be like that.”

Santana jerked her arm back when his hand closed over her own, fingers clammy and thick. “Don’t touch me.” It was fucking pathetic how she’d lost her nerve. There was barely enough venom there, instead replaced by helplessness. 

He gestured to somebody, a spike of fear running up her spine. She didn’t dare turn around, but it didn’t make much of a difference when three jocks rounded on her and a shock of cold, right in her face, hit her in the form of a slushy. A red slushy, stinging at her eyes, up her nose, sticking to her hair and staining the white of her uniform. She felt a drop slide down her cheek and fall onto her shoe. The only bitter thought she had for a moment was that Quinn was right, before it was ripped to shreds by a steely voice. 

“Everyone’s heard the dyke rumours but we didn’t think it was true with how much dick you’ve taken. But hanging around that fag Berry? You must be a lesbo or you’re just retarded.” That was the worst of it really. The words. Rather than shocking her physically, they pierced right through her nervous system, to her chest. It felt like a reflex, the way she flinched. The sort of reflex that happened when you touched something hot.

Her throat was tightening, tears pricking behind her screwed up eyes. The only reason she wasn’t having a full blown panic attack was because the hallway was mostly empty. Maybe nobody else had heard, and it was just the jocks being asshats. That was the only thing keeping her together: the thought that it was an isolated event. That it was just them, and nobody else. 

But, she was almost there. Her heart rate was through the roof, knocking against her ribs and drowning out the sound of everything around her. She felt dizzy. Nauseous. Fucking petrified as they laughed their way down the hall, fist bumping. She hadn’t even realised they’d gone until that point. Hadn’t even realised she wasn’t alone until someone latched onto her hand, dragging her somewhere, and only once they let go did she realise she was shaking. 

Wiping her eyes with the arm of her sleeve, Santana peeled them open, blinking rapidly at the sting.

“Sit down.” Rachel gestured to the bin off to the side of the sinks, collected and firm. The sort of energy she needed when she felt so disorientated. 

Santana complied without much thought, sucking in sharp breaths, trying to calm the fuck down. It was no use. The slurs just repeated themselves on a loop in her head, spoken to the entire McKinley student body, to her parents, her abuela. She was shaking.

Rachel was pushing her hair away from her face, brushing off bits of ice that’d remained on her skin. Kurt walked in with a cloth and Santana’s spare Cheerios uniform (she barely even thought over how he’d gotten it). He hovered for a while as Rachel wet the cloth, wringing it out, before tilting Santana’s head back and wiping down her cheek. Something about how her fingertips rested against her jaw, firm but gentle, was calming. She could hear the drip of the tap, her laboured breathing, and Kurts shuffling. Rachel was silent. It was almost grounding.

“You can head to class if you want,” Rachel spoke over her shoulder, the cloth stopping at her neck. Kurt looked to her for a second, hesitant, before Santana nodded. He smiled briefly, tinged with pity, before leaving. She didn’t stop to think that it might’ve been understanding. 

Rinsing the cloth under warm water again, Rachel repeated the process of wringing it out, taking it to her skin. 

“Why are you doing this?” Her voice cracked, wavering, slightly confused. 

She didn’t say anything. Just continued wiping at the slushy, a steady presence. 

“I thought you hated me.” It came out more vulnerable than she’d wanted. She was going for resentment, but honestly she was fucking thrown. 

“I do,” She frowned, mostly angrily, kind of petulant.

“I’m sorry,” She said in response, sincere, but lacking. It wasn’t clear what the apology was for. 

Once Rachel had wiped off most of the red, running her hair under the sink and squeezing out as much of the moisture as she could, she handed over the spare clothes. “Here. Get changed.” 

Her legs felt weak as she stood, pushing into a stall and peeling off the uniform. She folded it neatly, placed it over the door, then stepped into her skirt. It felt like shedding away the panic, lifting a weight, leaving this shit show in the toilet. She exited with as much dignity as she could, twirling her hair into a bun in the mirror, avoiding Rachel’s eyes. 

“Santana.” 

Glancing at her reflection, she answered blankly, “Yeah?”

Rachel’s eyes were almost desperate. Perhaps it was the shitty glass, cheap, distorting the view or something. “They’re assholes, okay? Don’t listen to what they say.” 

She shrugged, feeling devoid of emotion. Apathetic. “It’s true, anyway.”

There was a look of shock, before she was hushing out a scandalised, “That associating with me made you-“

“That I’m a  _ dyke_,” She spat the word like it burned her tongue, flinching beneath its weight. 

Watching her silently, lips parted in shock, Rachel remained stock still for a moment. 

“Thanks for the baby bath.” She left before Rachel could say anything more about the matter, walking into AP chemistry with nose turned up, looking down on everyone in their seats. 

-

They had English after lunch, which was a joke. She sat with the Cheerios , barely speaking as she dug into the shitty school meal and hoped word hadn’t reached them about the incident that morning. Nobody looked at her any differently, so it couldn’t have. 

Rachel sat with her chair as far away from her as she could, looking directly ahead. Luckily the people going before them took too long, because they didn’t have to present today. Thank fuck. Only, that meant they’d be going first in their next lesson, which, eye roll. Nobody liked going first. Except probably Rachel. 

It was more awkward than the tenuous start to their partnership. Santana didn’t try to talk, knowing Rachel would probably just explode on her again and she really couldn’t take that after that morning. Her moms advice could wait a little longer. 

It was at the end of the day when her mood shifted into something angrier. It seeped out of her pores and took her unawares in the form of a grumble beneath her breath as she watched Rachel talking sweetly up to Finn, a coy smile on her face. She felt like retching. Only because they were so gross to look at, and honestly, any environment without Finchel was a better environment than with. 

Shoving her books in their places, she ignored Brittany watching her curiously, only turning to face her once she’d slammed the door so hard that it made her flinch. 

“Are you angry?” 

“No,” She said with a scowl. So what if they annoyed her? They’d annoy any sane person. 

“Do you think Rachel and Finn will get back together?” Brittany asked all innocently, knowing exactly what she was doing. That fact there was something to be done by asking that question should’ve concerned her more than it did. Instead, she convinced herself it was because she didn’t have enough sleep the night before. 

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” It was unconvincing. Even her eye roll had lost its power lately. 

“Hi Brittany,” Rachel greeted as she walked passed, a bright smile on her face. She glanced out the corner of her eye at Santana (not subtle at all) as she took Finns arm, only receiving a blank look in response. What the fuck else did she expect? 

The boy toy just followed along dumbly, not realising he was being flaunted. 

“You’re allowed to be mad,” She hushed, looking at her sympathetically which...she didn’t need this shit from Brittany of all people.

“Why don’t you go and bother your boyfriend?” So it wasn’t Brittany’s fault that she was in a foul mood, but she was there, and Santana had a habit of taking things out on the people around her. 

“Okay then.” She just walked off, leaving Santana stood at her locker feeling like the dick she was. Maybe she repelled friendships or something. 

And what  _ perfect _ timing: Quinn was heading straight for her. Really? Was this karma or some shit for being so frank with Rachel? 

Somehow she just sparked chaos and arguments. Maybe she’d inherited it from her abuela. That woman was a walking telenovela. 

“I told you it would happen.” 

There was too much going on in such a short amount of time and Santana just felt overwhelmed. “Piss off Fabray.” 

“It was only a matter of time, really.” 

“What, did you call it?” She accused, patience non-existent. Quinn blinked, taken aback by the harshness.

“No. If I wanted you to get slushied I would’ve done that weeks ago,” She scoffed, flicking her pony off her shoulder.

“Did you tell them to call me a fucking dyke too? Is it you spreading rumours that hanging out with Rachel makes my flaming faggyness more obvious?” Her voice cracked. Of course it did. As if she needed Quinn knowing her weaknesses now. 

“Santana. No.” What was worse was that she sounded shocked. Sounded softer almost. Santana didn’t need her fucking pity. She didn’t need anyone’s pity. She just needed to be left alone. 

“Just- fuck off, okay? I won’t be hanging out with Rachel anymore so you won’t have to worry about the Cheerio’s rep or whatever it was that had your panties in a twist.” 

-

_ 203: I remember, in the eighties, when crack first hit the scene, hearing all kinds of horror stories about how if you smoked it even once, the memory of its unbelievable high would live on in your system forever, and you would thus never again be able to be content without it. I have no idea if this is true, but I will admit that it scared me off the drug. In the years since, I have sometimes found myself wondering if the same principle applies in other realms -- if seeing a particularly astonishing shade of blue, for example, or letting a particularly potent person inside you, could alter you irrevocably, just to have seen or felt it. In which case, how does one know when, or how, to refuse? How to recover? _

-

“Whilst I would much rather not be reading Shakespeare with you right now, our academics are of _utmost_ importance, so I suppose we have to get over our animosity and perform,” Rachel muttered beside her as the teacher started the lesson. It was an unnecessary piece of information in Santana’s opinion. 

Refraining from rolling her eyes, she whispered back, uninterested, “Right.” 

They got called forth in their contrasting shirts - something Rachel made a big deal about by saying she hadn’t expected Santana to remember. Bitch. 

“Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?” She started, earnest and concerned. Santana had always quite liked acting. It wasn’t hard to pretend to be somebody or something you weren’t. Acting was lying but professionally, and she was pretty sick at lying. 

“Yea, and I will weep a while longer,” Rachel responded, in all her dramatics. It kind of sounded like Rachel herself, really. 

Perhaps it was true that personal experience enhanced your acting, because she was best when accusing Santana of not loving her, “There is no love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go.” 

They pulled it off pretty well, considering. Rachel channeled all this emotion and even let out a tear once or twice, voice shaky and lip quivering. Yeah, she was gonna rock broadways world when she got to NYC. 

“Enough, I am engaged. I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you,” Crouching forwards, Santana took Rachel’s hand in hers, pressing her lips to her knuckles. It was unscripted, a flash of shock on the girls face. “By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dead account. As you hear me, think of me.” 

Their hands were still linked as they stood upright facing the class. It took her a second to realise, and she pulled her loose grip out of Santana’s, smiling at the light claps around the room (a lot less than Rachel deserved) but eyeing her wearily. Now that the passion invoked from performing had worn off, Rachel made a point of not looking at her. 

“We did well,” Santana offered up as they made their way back to their seats. 

“Yes.” 

Rolling her eyes, she drew an arrow next to the lines,  _we’ll be friends first_ ,  the translation: “not until we part as friends” in her analysis in the margins. 

She watched the action, but turned further in her seat.

Her moms advice about a  real apology struck her, and she had to figure something out soon because this silent treatment was just ridiculous. “Rachel.” 

“What?” 

“Hi.” 

Quirking her eyebrows, she looked at her for a few seconds, as if asking if she was serious. 

“This is the part where you say hi back so I don’t seem like an idiot.” She rested her chin on her palm, batting her eyelashes. 

That earned her a huff and a view of the back of her head.  _ Jeez_. At this point she’d have to sing a song in glee. Maybe she should find Puck to play guitar for her. Or just to get a crate of beers so she could get buzzed and not even bother thinking about anyone but herself. That sounded nice. 

The teacher dismissed them early, and Rachel fled the room as quick as she could, so it wouldn’t hurt to look for him. He was probably skipping class in the locker room lifting weights, or under the bleachers smoking pot.

Honestly, it wasn’t her idea of fun to lurk around the boys locker room, not that she’d ever want to step foot inside, but Finns voice stuck out to her as he wheeled Artie out the door into the empty hallway. Hiding around the corner, she listened attentively, Puck forgotten. “She’s totally into me again.” 

“Oh, for sure.” Artie was doing that voice that sounded suspiciously like a blaccent. She didn’t know why nobody had called him out on it. 

“How long before she puts out, do you think?” 

Oh, he fucking  _ didn’t_. 

“I don’t know dude. I thought she wanted to wait until she’d won a Tony?” 

“Yeah but, she was probably just saying that. Like she said herself, girls get horny too, it probably wouldn’t take much to convince her.” Since when did he become such a douchebag?Yeah, he’d always been a bit dumb, but predatory? That was Puck’s game. “I bet she’d be good in bed too.” 

So, Santana was fucking angry. She’d say it was because he was objectifying her or something, but really, she was livid in a way that probably went beyond feminist bullshit. 

“She’s got to be tight with that tiny little body of hers. I mean, Santana had taken enough that I was like nothing but I’d totally destroy Rachel.” 

Her feet carried her over on their own accord, but it was with full control that she swung a fist at his face. It hurt like a bitch, seriously, his skull was made of pure metal, but the way he shouted in pain, hands coming up to cover his face, was worth it. She’d barely managed to grab him by the lapels of his jacket, slamming him back into a locker before Artie grabbed her about the waist with an odd amount of strength, kicking his feet on the ground so they rolled backwards. 

Ending up in Artie Abrams lap must’ve been the worst thing about it. “Let me  _ go_!” It did nothing but anger her more, restricted by his scrawny arms.

“You asshole!” She practically screamed at Finn, resisting against the cripple holding on for dear life. If only he’d held onto the console of his moms car this hard. Maybe he wouldn’t be in a wheelchair. And Finn, the fucking brainless fuck, was going to seriously pay. There were a barrage of insults flooding her brain, Artie at the brunt of half of them. 

“What’s wrong with you?” He yelled, stomping his foot on the ground like a little kid with anger issues. 

“You’re lucky that’s all I did, you fucking perv. I will go all Lima Height’s on your sorry ass as soon as this legless shit let’s me go.” 

“Santana,” Artie’s voice was alarmed but meditative. Why the fuck did he have to try to be a good guy? He wasn’t. 

“Let me go!” 

“No. Not until you calm down.” She had to hand it to him. One, he was freaking strong, it must’ve been all that wheeling around boosting his upper strength, two, he was stubborn as shit. 

“Fine.” 

There were a few moments of just laboured breathing and Finn cursing under his breath. Come on, she had to admit to herself her swing wasn’t  _ that _ good. And he was whinging like a fucking baby. 

“Let me go now. I won’t beat his flabby ass.” Artie kept still for a couple seconds longer, but eventually relinquished his hold, remaining guarded as Finn glared down at her. She just wanted to spit in his face and slam her heel down into his foot. 

The nerve. Did cheating and going between girls give him the gall to think he had any sexual prowess? He was like a fish out of water in bed, flopping about, moist and suffocating. Sleeping with Finn truly was rock bottom for her. 

“Santana. Just...leave.” Artie seemed almost regretful, urging her away. Finn’s eye was narrowed, the other covered by his meaty hand. 

“Whatever. You’re a fucking creep, Hudson.” 

To make matters worse, glee club was in twenty minutes. Shouldering her way into a bathroom she glared at a group of freshman and told them to scatter. She ran her hand under cold water, trying to bend it to get the blood flowing or whatever. She’d never actually properly punched somebody. Yeah, she’d been in fights, but not  _fist_ fights. It throbbed beneath the cold water, hot. 

There was tension in the air as she took her seat twenty two minutes later. Artie was looking sceptically between them, Finn was staring straight ahead, ignoring the curious looks directed at his face. His eye was a dark red, an undertone of blue coming through, that shit would be black by tomorrow morning. He fucking deserved it. 

“Hey guys,” Mr Schuester walked in cheerfully, only stopping once he noticed the silence. “Finn, what happened to your eye?” 

Him glancing at Santana was a dead giveaway, how stupid could one person be? “Uh...nothing.” 

“Santana’s knuckles are red,” Quinn remarked, all calm and cold. The bitch. Santana shot daggers at her as the rest of the club stared at her hand.

“Santana?” She self consciously covered over her knuckles as Mr Schue stepped closer. “Finn. What happened?”

“Okay, she totally punched me out of nowhere.” There were pathetic gasps at the confirmation, Rachel one of them, and Santana was just fucking over this shit. They’d jump to back up Finn, she was surprised her ass hadn’t been handed to her already. 

“Bullshit,” She scowled at him, not missing how Artie twitched like he was ready to grab her again. 

“Explain yourself.” 

“He was being a complete jackass,” Santana spoke through her teeth, “And a total creep.”

Maybe she appreciated Rachel’s ass from time to time, but there was a difference between finding somebody attractive and detailing how you’re going to  _ destroy _ them. 

“She got offended because I said she was bad in bed.” 

“Firstly, I find that hard to believe when you came after like two seconds and totally didn’t get me off. Secondly, you know that’s not why I punched you.”

Schue looked like he was going to reprimand her but Finn was standing up in his seat. “What, do you own Rachel now or something?” 

Everyone looked between them in confusion, eyebrows raised. 

Rachel was shuffling in her seat, face screwed up in turmoil. “What on Earth is happening?” 

“Santana, we’ll have to report this to Principle Figgins,” Schue said, arms crossed and face unimpressed. Fuck  _ that_. 

“Artie, I know we hate each other but dude, help me out,” She pleaded, turning in her seat to face everybody. He nodded, grasping his gloved hands together, like he was preparing himself for trial.

“Finn  _ may _ have made some comments concerning having sex with Rachel,” He voiced, all vague. It was _much_ worse than that. 

“Is this true?”

Finn looked like he’d been betrayed, the attention shifted over to him as he fidgeted where he stood. “I- well- I mean, I said I’d love to take that step further in our relationship.” 

“You said she’d be tight because she’s got a tiny body and you’d totally-” Santana stopped, grimacing, “I don’t even want to say it.” She couldn’t meet Rachel’s eyes. 

The attention shifted again, from her to Rachel, then to Finn, then to her again. 

“Finn, that’s unacceptable!” Mr Schue exclaimed, getting all up on the feminist train again. 

“Finn!” Kurt gasped, scandalised. Probably ashamed he lived under the same roof as that fucktard. What would Burt and Cathy—or whatever her name was— say?

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just having a bro talk, you know? Puck’s like it all the time, Sam’s even said stuff like it. I wouldn’t actually be like that. I just wanted to sound cool.” He at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed. Only because he’d been caught. 

“It  is quite strange that Santana would react this way. She’s heard Puck talking about how he got me drunk on wine coolers to have sex with me,” Quinn said, watching her suspiciously. 

The attention was back on her, and she huffed as she crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, you’re not my friend.”

“We  _ were _ friends.” 

“Were we?” Yeah, they were, but whatever. Puck talked about her like that all the time. Maybe she was desensitised to it. Meanwhile Finn played this innocent act. 

“Santana didn’t punch Rick the Stick when he said stuff about me,” Brittany frowned, tilting her head. 

“You’re not a virgin.” 

“So that makes it okay?” Quinn questioned, eyebrow raised and grinning like she’d made some sort of discovery. 

“Maybe I’m more aware about the harm of men talking about the female body in a degrading way now. I’m woke and shit. Is that enough for you?” She snapped, defensive. Could they all just piss off? She was annoyed as it was, she didn’t need the club questioning why she’d reacted the way she did. 

“Rachel. I’m sorry, I would never pressure you into anything,” Finn apologised all regretfully, playing it up by placing his hand on Rachel’s shoulder. Santana would crack his knuckles. 

Shaking it off, Rachel forced a smile, “I might forgive you, Finn, but we will certainly not be getting back together.” 

For a second she thought he might throw a fit. Kick a chair or yell about how they were soulmates. But everyone was watching the interaction carefully, Santana especially, and he nodded his head in resignation, taking a seat.

That seemed to be it. Finn made a dicky comment, apologised, and suddenly everything was okay again. Kurt was giving him the cold shoulder, but in a couple days they’d be walking into school together. 

Everyone else somehow brushed it off, meanwhile Santana was still raging. The apology seemed half assed to her. She was furious and she didn’t know where the anger had come from and why it was so strong, but the urge to just drop kick Finn square in the face was a damn strong one. 

Schue didn’t bother reporting anything to Figgins and just started talking about Regionals or some shit, which was probably best for her bruising knuckles. Two wrongs made a right, she guessed.

It was hard not to notice Rachel watching her, and there was no telling whether it was an “I can defend myself, there’s no need for violence” type of scrutiny, or something else, but Santana thought looking at her would only ignite the flame of her anger and she’d go nuts. 

Where the anger stemmed from, whether it be a protectiveness for her friend, or something more, Santana just wanted to forget about it. Because thinking- thoughts were dangerous. They transpired and shaped themselves into ideas, and ideas led to actions, and actions had consequences. Ideas were often delusions, fitting into this false sense of reality that never translated into  true reality. The mind could only go so far in imagining an unbiased world, limited by fantasy and what people wanted to happen rather than what  _ would _ happen. Whether it was subconscious or not. 

Santana couldn’t allow her thoughts to evolve into ideas, because she had an inkling of what those ideas would be. 

Ideas that involved Rachel and poetry and metaphors for things that were fine when spoken as statements, not imagery. 

Santana slipped out of the choir room before Mr Schue dismissed them, hoping to be in her car and leaving before anybody noticed. Sometimes it was nice not to be close to everybody, that way they weren’t instantly aware she wasn’t there.

Still feeling way too pissed and wanting to shove Finnessa’s stupid head down the toilet, she shouldered her way out of the main door almost violently. As it was closing, she heard a muffled, “Santana!”

If it were anyone else, maybe sans Brittany, she wouldn’t have turned around. 

Rachel took a while to catch up, walking briskly, as fast as her short legs could get there (her legs weren’t actually that short). 

“If you want me to apologise for punching Finn,I won’t,” She kept her chin held high, but looked passed her. 

“I wasn’t going to ask you to,” Rachel said softly, Santana’s gaze dropping to see her looking up at her. 

“Oh,” She breathed, hands shoving into her letterman jacket pockets. “What then?” For a moment she cursed herself for sounding brash, after everything, but it was second nature to her by now. 

“I just- thank you,” She tilted her head shyly, pressing her hand onto Santana’s forearm. Eyes flitting down to it for a second, she cleared her throat, feigning nonchalance.

“It’s whatever,” She shrugged, shaking off the elation creeping it’s way to her chest. “You probably would’ve done the same. Just with less violence.” 

“Probably,” She nodded with a smile, “I find “locker talk” to be extremely disrespectful. I never thought I’d be the subject of such a discussion.”

“You’re not flattered, are you?” Santana questioned sceptically, because knowing Rachel any attention was good attention. She hoped she was just being presumptuous. 

“No, of course not,” She shook her head around a laugh, her bangs moving side to side. 

Santana smiled, nodding down at her feet. “Good.” 

A moment passed, the breeze picking up. She watched Rachel shiver and had to refrain from offering her letterman jacket. 

“Why did you react like that?” She asked after a moment, ever curious and questioning. 

“Because he pissed me off,” Santana said simply, shrugging. Her hand reflexively curled into a fist, causing her to wince around the sharp pain. 

Rachel noticed, her moment of contemplation (probably forming a hundred more questions to interrogate her with) breaking to make way for concern. “Can I look at your knuckles?”

“They’re not even bad.” 

She pulled her hand out anyway, expecting her to take a brief look and move on. Instead, she took her hand into her own, brushing a gentle finger over the ridges, one by one. She looked up at her all awed, like she couldn’t believe Santana would defend her. Of course Rachel would find some way to romanticise this. Douche makes gross comments about a girl and gets punched? Not too profound. Whatever, the attention felt nice. So did Rachel’s fingertips, lightly running over her skin. 

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, watching the way a thumb caressed the back of her hand, deviating from the reddened zone. 

“I know.” 

_ You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy...Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff w/ Finn in this chapter isn’t actually hard to believe for me, considering my friends now boyfriend said he’d “destroy her” before they got together. I’ve heard him use homophobic slurs, and victim blame too 😌
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and there weren’t too many mistakes, leave ur thoughts below if you so wish <3


End file.
